


Perchance to Dream

by days_of_storm



Series: The Eye of the Beholder Series - Book I [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 68,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the third part in my series, a follow up to The Eye of the Beholder and Life Imitates Art. It's another case fic, but it also concentrates on the changing relationship between John and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> Thanks for reading :-) Comments are greatly appreciated!

The air smelled metallic, like the sharp tang of blood. The wind was dragging at his hair, sand biting in his eyes. The pain was not immediate, but certain to rip through him as soon as he would let himself realise that he had been hit. The explosion behind his eyes made him blind for a minute. I'm dead, he thought. I'm going to die. Please, God, let me live!

"John!" He opened his eyes, clutching his shoulder, blood was seeping through his fingers and he could feel bones and tissue give way. Panic was rising in him, pure, naked and self-centred panic. This was impossible. He could not die, not now, and not here. He refused to die a hero. Brooke's poem suddenly resurfaced, printed in the air above him, long since forgotten but once learned to recite by heart for school. _If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever England._ Madness, this was madness, no soldier in his right mind was this patriotic. This was Afghanistan and it would always be Afghanistan, never mind the numbers of dead soldiers … and soon he would become just another number; a number with a medal to prove he had died for his country.

"John!" Again the voice appeared that dragged him away from the abyss that he was threatening to fall into. John knew that he would not live if he let himself go there. He felt his hand being ripped away from his shoulder. A curse and the noise of retching close by. The pain became unbearable and he tasted tears and dirt and blood as he pressed his right hand against his mouth to keep from screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that stars exploded behind his lids.

"John! Let go!" Someone was tugging at his hand, probably to give him a drink of water, but he couldn't move. Every single muscle in his body hurt and he knew that if he moved, the blood would keep on seeping into the sand below him, drinking the life out of him.

"John, open your eyes! Look at me! John!" Opening his eyes would mean that he had to face reality; but he did not want to see the blood, he did not want to take in his surroundings, he did not want to know who else had been shot. Blinking sand and tears out of his eyes, he opened them, suppressing a groan as his vision blanked out just to give way to a face leaning in closer, scaring him.

Ignoring the pain that was ripping through his body, he pushed himself up on both arms and scrambled back, away for the face that was too close, too familiar, too painful to look at. He only stopped when he reached the wall, and with a gasp he pulled his legs close and buried his face in his arms, shutting out the world. Breathe, he thought, just breathe. Breathe through the pain.

And he did, inhaling in a sob, exhaling shakily. He could still taste tears, but no blood. There was no blood. In shock, he pressed his right hand against his left shoulder, sobbing again when he did not feel broken skin and blood and the pain slowly faded into a memory.

He was alive, and the wound had healed so long ago. The moments came back to him, slowly, but painful as ever. Slipping in and out of consciousness, knowing that he was broken, that he was not the man he had been just hours ago. A shot to his shoulder - through his shoulder, could mean the end of everything. If he did not die, he would not be able to work. He wouldn't be able to hold a rifle. He wouldn't be able to write anymore. John tried to recall the moment when he had let himself hope again, because that was the only thing that helped him wake up and shake off the dark shadow that threatened to drive him to insanity.

That moment when John knew he would be okay, that moment had redefined who he was and what he was to do with his life. His right hand had been as steady as he had needed it to be. The training had been worth it and he was just about as good at shooting with his right as he had once been with his left hand. The glass didn't pose a problem, neither did the distance. His focus was complete; he was calm and full of purpose. The shot had had a healing effect. He hit the Cabbie an inch below the point where he had been hit, closer to the heart, making sure he'd not survive. He had passed on his pain and saved two lives, Sherlock's and his own in the process.

Sherlock! John looked up, startled, taking in his friend's form for the first time. He was on his knees, the coffee table pushed to the side so he had had room to crouch down next to John when he did not wake up from his nightmare. Sherlock was very pale, his hands shaking lightly where they rested on his thighs, afraid to do anything that might scare John. Tears blurred his vision again as John carefully sat up, straightening his legs. Then, suddenly realising what he must have looked like, he started to wipe his face, furiously trying to make the tears and the dream disappear. With a shuddering breath he dropped his hands again and looked back at Sherlock, who had not moved a millimetre, looking at him with an expression that John could only define as shock. Sherlock had never been with him when he had had a real nightmare, John realised. He certainly had heard him yell in his sleep, and the dream in the hospital must have been bad enough for Sherlock to witness, but this went much deeper. This dream never let him go back to sleep after he woke up, drenched in sweat and tears, the bed usually almost stripped off its sheets. More than once he had hurt himself critically in his sleep and more than once had he woken up and barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up and crying until there was nothing left but pain.

This nightmare, though, had been different again. Too real, almost, too much a memory to be a dream. He had felt the pain in his shoulder, physically, undoubtedly.

"John." Sherlock didn't sound like himself and John's focus shifted back to his face. "John, it's me."

And that had him crawling on his hands and knees, back to the couch and into Sherlock's arms. "I know," he whispered, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." The tears were back, but he didn't care. It had taken a while, but he knew by now that Sherlock would not use his weaknesses against him.

Sherlock held on tighter and John was so incredibly grateful to have him. In all of those months of nightmares, no one had ever held him. It worked miracles, and with every breath that Sherlock drew he felt himself calm down, melting into the heat of the body that surrounded him.

And then Sherlock started talking, instinctively telling him that everything would be fine, that he was alive and unhurt and that it was all in the past and that he wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, listening to his voice and letting himself relax, slowly. "What happened?" he asked after a few moments, his words muffled, but still understood by Sherlock.

"I tried to wake you up, but you just wouldn't and then you pushed me away, but I couldn't move, leaning against the back of the couch and so instead you just fell down, but even then you didn't wake up." John could hear the desperation in his voice, yet another new thing about Sherlock. "I thought you had hurt yourself, but you wouldn't wake up." The last sentence almost made John cry again. Sherlock being so incredibly emotional was something he had never expected him to be and it broke his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"I don't understand." Sherlock clearly sounded distressed and John understood that Sherlock's own reactions and emotions were at best confusing and at worst scaring him, and that John was the one who triggered these feelings. Somehow this thought sobered him up. He untangled himself from Sherlock's arms and moved up to sit on the couch, extending his hands to pull Sherlock up. Wiping his face again, he tried to think of the best way to explain to Sherlock that this was part of who he was.

"It is my fault." Sherlock's voice was close to breaking and John's head shot around, searching for his eyes. "No, Sherlock. It's not your fault. Why would you think such a thing? I've been having these dreams ever since I was shot."

"But it didn't happen before, not when we were together. You had a nightmare in the hospital, but that was only to be expected, and it was about the library." He started to sound like himself again as he started to rationalise his thoughts. "But then this; it does not make sense that you would have such a vivid nightmare if it didn't have to do with recent events that triggered them. And since I upset you and did not even give you the chance to talk about it …" he let out a shaky breath. "I will try not to do that again."

"Sherlock, you can't promise me that. There will be cases where you will need to do exactly what you did and I should be the one who should try not to be upset about it. I'd be in your way if I expected you to compromise your work for my sake."

Sherlock looked at him, expressionless, but John could see his thoughts racing. "But you are important to me. I do not want to upset you if it causes you to have nightmares."

"Sherlock. Don't think that it's your fault. It's the bloody war's fault and my own for being stupid enough to get hit."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

A surge of panic rose in him. All he wanted was to forget it, and talking about it would only bring back nore memories. "No," he said quietly and Sherlock nodded.

"I am sorry, though. Do you feel better now?"

John smiled and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Yes, thank you. Tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"Sherlock," John was amused. "You're becoming polite, what happened to you in Canada?"

Sherlock only gave him a look that was supposed to make him see how little he thought of the comment, but he couldn't quite keep the smile out of his eyes. Clearly, he was relieved to have John back in good spirits.

The tea helped, and as they sat at the kitchen table in silence, John felt the bitter after-taste of the dream fade away. However, he still couldn't quite push away what Sherlock had said about triggering the nightmare. It sounded logical, but he refused to believe that Sherlock was the one causing those memories to resurface. He didn't want it to be Sherlock's fault.

"Lestrade has a new case." Sherlock's voice cut through John's thoughts, making him look up from his tea. "He grounded me, though. Said I _needed to sleep it off_ before I went back to work." He imitated Lestrade's voice to a degree that it was almost scary and John had to laugh. "I swear I didn't tell Greg that you didn't sleep."

"Greg, huh?" Sherlock smirked, and John couldn't tell whether he was amused that John found it necessary to be friends with the Detective Inspector who was clearly intellectually inferior to Sherlock, or whether he was pleased about it, because deep down Sherlock liked him.

"How much sleep did you get, anyway?" John knew it wasn't the right question to ask, but he would rather deal with an irritable Sherlock than with no Sherlock at all.

"I didn't sleep. It was hard to stay awake after eating with Carl, which only proves my point." John snorted, earning a milder version of Sherlock's stare, but he continued. "And then we just talked." Sherlock talked fast, obviously hoping that John wouldn't ask what they had talked about and John renewed his plan to visit the man in jail. "We had to wait for the driver to come back and he flew back with me so I had to keep an eye on him, obviously. And then there was you. You were angry with me and I knew it was my fault and even when I tried to sleep on the plane I couldn't. I did manage to eat a bit, though, at the airport."

He leaned back in his chair, playing with his cup. "I tried to think of a way that I could have solved the case without involving you, John, but I couldn't."

John got up and filled the kettle again, letting Sherlock's words sink in. He was right, of course he was. John would just have to accept that.

"Sherlock, don't worry about it. I know that it was the best, and probably the only way to arrest him. I just felt out of control, you know?"

"I hate that. I hate feeling out of control. I'm sorry about that, John." Sherlock looked at his hands.

Watching Sherlock sit there, an empty tea cup in his hand, which in itself made him a little proud, John had to think of earlier and how he might just one day be able to make Sherlock love being out of control. He felt himself blush, and just in that moment Sherlock chose to look up at him.

And he didn’t look away for a long time, but watched him calmly, careful not to let John see his thoughts. It was almost painfully obvious that he knew exactly what John had just been thinking.

"So," John said after a seemingly endless minute, "you should probably go to bed while I prepare dinner?"

"Or I could go down to New Scotland Yard, make Lestrade see that I am ready for whatever he has for me and you can make dinner, John, which I promise I will eat when I come home."

"He's not going to let you. He'll send you home and probably tell you off for leaving me alone again so soon after your return."

"John," he said gravely, "Lestrade will not vocalise what you feel."

"He might." John raised his chin a little. "Please stay."

"John, I can't sleep any more than I already have, especially not after what happened."

He was doing it again, saying his name in every sentence he addressed him with. Instead of an answer, John took Sherlock's cup from him and made him another cup of tea. He walked around the table to put it in front of Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his neck. A small sound of appreciation escaped Sherlock's lips. "You could try?" John smiled against Sherlock's hair, pulling back his hands to rest them on his shoulders for a second before he started to massage the muscles there. Sherlock's head dropped forward and when John dug his thumbs deeper into his muscles, feeling how tense he was, Sherlock groaned. "Don't stop!"

John was delighted. He might just have found his own way to manipulate Sherlock. But kneading Sherlock's shoulders also let John feel just how tense he was. He wondered whether it was a constant condition or whether he managed to relax sometimes. The noises that Sherlock made were almost obscene and it didn't take long before John had to bite his tongue to not join in. Damnit, Sherlock should not be allowed to be so sexual, and yet he promised himself to figure out what other noises Sherlock might make once he let down his guard.

Sherlock was usually very quiet. The only noises he made on a case were a small humming noise when his mind was working fast and he considered the evidence. And then there were the exclamations of surprise and delight when the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. But if he didn't talk, he was completely silent.

"John?"

"Yes?" He sounded hoarse and knew that there was no use in trying to hide his state from Sherlock.

"Please, don’t … don’t stop."

John laughed a little breathlessly. "Sorry, but my hands are starting to hurt. I'll continue later. How come you are so tense?"

Sherlock straightened and gently put his hands on John's, squeezing lightly. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." John smiled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair and then moved away again. He knew he would need to do something about his erection, but he couldn't really imagine talking about it with Sherlock, asking him for help in the matter. Somehow he was not sure how far he could go with him, even if he obviously knew how to enjoy physical contact, as he had just proven to John. But maybe it wasn't physical contact in general; maybe it was physical contact with John that he enjoyed. He pondered on that, wondering if Sherlock would just let him do whatever he wanted with him.

Alright, wrong thought, definitely the wrong thought. "I'll be upstairs" he murmured and before Sherlock could argue with him, he was out of the kitchen and in his room.

He locked the door behind him. He had never locked that door, but he needed to get away, he needed to be kept away from the unsuspecting man at the kitchen table who had barely slept, eaten almost nothing and flown in just that morning from the other side of the world.

John tried to calm himself, thinking of something else than spinning Sherlock around, pushing him up on the kitchen table and ripping the rest of his clothes off. Both of them shirtless in the same room was not such a great idea after all, he guessed. But what if Sherlock wanted it, too? He had clearly enjoyed being touched, so why did he imagine that Sherlock was somehow beyond sex? Sherlock might not have had much experience with sex; hell, he knew nothing about Sherlock's past, but John had just as little experience with other men, so it might in fact be something new for both of them.

For a second he wished that Sherlock would just pick the lock and barge in, push him against the wall, and kiss him like he had before he had left, leaving him boneless and desperate.

John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Good lord, where was his mind taking him? Since when did he feel doubtlessly sexually attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He had loved kissing him and he had enjoyed it immensely to touch his skin when he had pretended to take care of the wound and the bruise after the library incident, but this was different. This was a raw need to touch the other man, and to be touched by him, to be possessed by him.

"John?"

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

"John, are you alright? Do you need anything?"

He laughed at that and he was almost sure that Sherlock heard it. "Give me a minute." He started blinking rapidly, trying to find something to distract him.

There was only silence on the other side of the door. Well, if he wasn't going to have sex with Sherlock, he might at least relieve himself while he was close to him. Closing his eyes he pressed his palm against his erection, trying to keep his mind from picturing long white fingers in place of his own. His head fell back against the door and he knew that it must have been loud. "Fuck."

John knew that if he would keep this up, it would only be a matter of seconds before he came in his trousers, and he just couldn't. So he pushed them open and down, imagining Sherlock being the one doing it. He almost didn't have to do anything but squeeze himself a few times to come, his head colliding with the door once again, his mouth open in a silent cry. Some part of his mind wondered whether the collision might cause brain damage or at least nausea, but to laugh again would have needed energy, energy that he needed to keep him standing upright.

 _Not good_. This was definitely not good. Sherlock would know what he had done, and he would most likely inquire for more information.

A knock. "John, when you're done in there, could you please come out again?"

He swallowed, letting himself sink down to the ground, his back against the door. He could hear Sherlock pace up and down the small hall-space in front of their rooms. John shook his head to clear it. How was he supposed to face Sherlock now?

"John?" He had stopped pacing. "John, Lestrade just texted me, they need me. I want you to come," he stopped, and John started laughing. Too late for that, his mind yelled hysterically. "John, please come out?"

He thought about getting up, but he couldn't quite find the strength. "Give me a minute. Text me where I should go. I just … need some time."

"Right." Sherlock rushed down the stairs. It took John another five minutes until he could convince his body to rise from the floor. This was ridiculous, he wasn't a teenager anymore. Clean pants were needed, and he took a quick shower if only to get rid of the giddy feeling in his stomach. When he was dressed and ready to go, he checked his phone.

_White City, Wood Lane Tube Station. Are you okay?_

John decided against answering, grabbed his gloves and went out to follow Sherlock to a case that must have been important enough for Lestrade to loosen Sherlock's house arrest.


	2. Chapter Two

It took John almost an hour to get to Shepherd's Bush and he knew that taking a cab had not been the most effective means of transport, but somehow he felt that he needed time to calm down. When he finally stepped out of the car, paying a painfully large sum to the driver, he saw Lestrade and Sherlock in deep conversation. Well, that was new. Usually, Lestrade was listening to what Sherlock had to say and threw in a remark here and there, but it seemed as if they were really talking. John wondered what could be so bad as to change Lestrade's mind about asking Sherlock for help.

He stepped closer and Sherlock greeted him without turning around. "Ah, John." That was all. John had felt slightly worried that Sherlock might comment on what had happened before Lestrade's call, but he should have known better. Sherlock was, after all, very professional, in his own twisted kind of way and the work always came first.

"What happened?" John looked around, trying to see a body, blood, or anything suspicious. All he could see was snow that looked orange and dirty in the dim light of the street lamps.

"John, hi." Lestrade seemed distracted, drawing his hand through his hair. "We're sort of running out of ideas here. There have been two deaths, two identical deaths. It should seem like suicide, but something is off. Both men died on the exact same moment in the exact same way, but they have nothing in common, no friends or relations, no job, nothing. For all we know they didn't know of each other's existence."

John looked at Sherlock, who looked incredibly tired. Had he been this tired at home? He shouldn't have come here, it had been a mistake. The tiniest twitch in his face told John that Sherlock had no idea what had happened and that it bothered him much more than he let on.

"Can I see the body?" John still looked at Sherlock, making sure he was otherwise okay.

"Follow me." They passed Wood Lane Station and walked towards the Westfield Shopping Centre which would open in a few weeks time. A man was lying on the ground in front of the large glass doors that would soon lead into the centre. It seemed obvious that he had fallen from the roof. John could see the shattered bones of his legs, figuring that they had been the first body parts to hit the ground. The skull was fractured and both wrists and arms were broken. Sherlock watched John as he checked the body for any sign that might speak of more than a roughly thirty feet fall. Nothing.

"Did you find anything?" he asked Sherlock, who winced at his question, which was answer enough for John. "Where is the other body then?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he could almost hear him say 'finally, you're asking the right questions.'

"That is the problem. It's not here, it's in Bloomsbury." Lestrade sounded annoyed.

"Oh." John started to understand why Lestrade had asked for Sherlock to come. "And you say both deaths are identical?"

"Yes, same height of the building, same injuries, same way they ended up lying on the bloody ground as if they just dropped down without any struggle or movement. Apparent suicide."

"I need more data," Sherlock piped up as if he had decided that not understanding something was simply not an option, a condition that had to be changed as soon as possible. "John."

Sherlock turned and walked back to the White City tube station, and, to John's great surprise, Sherlock took the stairs down into the station. "Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Taking a cab will take too long. The tube is intolerable, but faster than any other option we have right now. Finally something interesting!" With a swift move he jumped the turnstile and walked on as if he had never heard of such a thing as a ticket or Oyster card. And, of course, just as John looked around to make sure that nobody was watching he met the eyes of a tube worker. Cursing, he walked back and stood in line to draw a ticket, nervously biting his lip, knowing that Sherlock was probably already on his way back down-town. And he would have so loved seeing him fret and complain about the tube, knowing that this was probably the only chance he would ever get to see Sherlock like this.

Grinning, he finally got his ticket, passed the turnstile, and jogged down the stairs to the Epping bound Central Line platform where the train was approaching. Just as he was getting on the train he felt a hand on the small of his back. He didn't look around but let himself be guided into the car and only turned when he reached the opposite door, standing too close to Sherlock, and still too far away. There was an expression on his face, if only for a second, that John could only describe as gleeful. "Sherlock, you don't have to get out of your way to surprise me, you know? You're doing that enough as it is."

"Oh John, I did not want to surprise you. I just wanted to see what your reaction would be." The corners of his mouth twitched, and John laughed and leaned in closer. He didn't really stand a chance, now, did he?

"Still your case, am I?"

"I thought I had solved you, but yes, indeed, you still are."

"You lied when you said that finally something interesting is happening, because you just solved an interesting case, or two, if you will, and then there's also us," John smiled up at him, unable to turn his face away. Sherlock smirked. "Possibly." 

"Do you really have no idea how the two deaths are related?" John asked when the train reached Marble Arch. Sherlock had not made a single comment about the ghastly condition of the overcrowded carriage, clearly lost in thoughts. John had witnessed his eyes changing, moving away from looking at him and seeing him enter a place in his head where different theories were rushing to and fro, and pieces of the puzzle were pressed into place or regrouped; it was entirely fascinating. Eventually his eyes had started moving, rapid minute movements from right to left and back as if he was speed reading. At John's words he stopped and his expression grew somewhat more serious.

"I have a few ideas, but nothing is certain."

Well, if Sherlock didn't want to share his theories there had to be a good reason for it.

They left the tube at Tottenham Court Road and when they stepped out, Sherlock inhaled deeply and murmured something that sounded a lot like "never again." John couldn't help but chuckle and earned a sceptical look from Sherlock. Walking north, John suddenly remembered that they were close to home; home, where Sherlock was an entirely different person; home, where Sherlock was shy and adorable and relaxed under his hands. John couldn't help but gin, butterflies threatening to overcome him for a moment. He was ripped out of his thoughts when he felt Sherlock's arm grab his and he was pulled forcefully back onto the pavement before a cab ran him over. He stared at the point where he had just stood and almost been killed.

"Don't let me distract you." Sherlock sounded much more serious than he should have, considering what he was saying.

"I'm sorry!" John stammered, looking up at Sherlock who looked almost coldly back at him. And then, a little more relaxed, he added, "thank you."

Sherlock nodded and then rushed ahead, crossing the street and leaving John to run after him yet again. At Goodge Street they took a left, and entered Charlotte Street, where they could already see the police cars two blocks ahead of them. The snow had been mostly cleared away on the streets and sidewalks so they could move quickly.

Detective Inspector Dimmock looked positively happy to see Sherlock. John tried to recall if he had ever looked relieved on the occasion of seeing Sherlock, because usually it meant that he was to be made out as an idiot, in the worst case in front of his people, and, more often than not, ridiculed or yelled at by Sherlock. But not today.

"Please tell me you have a theory!" he held his hands up as to show that he was just as out of ideas as Lestrade had been. "I would say this is impossible, or a really bad joke. Either way, we have to find out who pushed them and why."

"Nobody pushed them." Sherlock was calm, a frown on his face as he saw the body lying in a mirrored position to the first one. "And they didn't fall at the exact same time."

John and the Detective Inspector looked at Sherlock in bewilderment. "And how would you know that?" Dimmock asked, clearly not ready to believe Sherlock, despite the fact that Sherlock had always been right until now.

"I don't," Sherlock said, as if that was explanation enough.

"What do you suppose happened?"

"They fell. They were not pushed and they didn't jump, they fell. It's obvious."

John watched Dimmock opening his mouth, but then he seemed to remember that Sherlock would have nothing but a snarky remark for him at this point and so he wisely closed it again.

Sherlock started to walk up and down the street, looking up at the building and then to the opposite side, muttering to himself.

"Can we go in?" he asked, starting for the door before Dimmock could answer.

Sherlock climbed up the stairs, counting audibly. Dimmock and John shared a look, both of them out of their depth as to what Sherlock was doing. He stopped on the third floor. "Thirty feet," he said. "They both fell thirty feet."

"Okay?"

No further explanation followed. John could almost hear Sherlock think, and he could see from the way he held his head hat he was intrigued. For a second, John's heart sank, because the one person who was able to capture Sherlock's interest like this was Moriarty. What if this was Moriarty's way of getting Sherlock to play again?

Sherlock walked into the office of a sports company, leaving the Detective Inspector to hastily explain the situation.

"Who reported the incident?" Sherlock suddenly asked over the grumble of the people present.

"I did." A pale young man who was holding a cup of tea in shaking hands answered. "He fell right by my window."

"Did you hear anything?" Sherlock obviously didn't care for or didn't notice the state of the man and jumped right into questioning him. "Did he scream or shout?"

"No, he was silent. Just like that, he just dropped down and the only noise I heard was ..." he stopped, swallowing hard, the tea in his styrofoam cup spilling onto his hands.

"When he hit the ground." Sherlock finished for him. "So no other noise, no fight, nothing?"

"No."

"Good."

John had to check himself to keep from grinning. The 'bit not good' would have sounded ridiculous in this situation and he didn't want to distract Sherlock.

He walked to a window and looked out, smiling to himself. John wished he could say something, but there was no subtle way of teaching Sherlock to show some respect.

"At what time did the fire alarm go off?"

Dimmock just stared and John shook his head, looking at his toes in order not to laugh at the irritation in the eyes of the people around them.

"Must have been about seven." Sherlock checked the clock on the wall. "No, it was exactly at seven. Why were you still inside?" He had turned to the man with the tea, who grew even paler if that was possible.

"Leave the poor sod alone." A well built and expensively dressed man walked into the wide room, patting the younger man's shoulder. "He just started to work here a week ago and we gave him a task that he was supposed to complete by tonight. The fire alarm was scheduled. I let him know about it so he wouldn't be distracted. Now would you kindly let us get back to work, we all have deadlines to keep."

" _Dead_ lines indeed," Sherlock said and, taking one last sweeping look out of the window, turned to go. John followed him, slowly starting to understand what Sherlock might think happened. But then again, he probably got everything wrong and missed all the important clues. Instead of going back down, Sherlock took the stairs up and pushed at the door that lead to the roof without using the door handle. It gave way.

This fact drew a little satisfied noise from Sherlock and he stepped out into the cold air.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"How did you know about the fire alarm?"

Sherlock grinned and turned around to him. "You always manage to ask the one question whose answer will not impress you."

"There was a note somewhere, wasn't there?"

Sherlock grinned even more widely and turned around again, scanning the roof. "Everyone must have been in the process of rushing outside during the drill, and the man probably already lay there when the first ones came down. I am sure he died at the exact same time as the alarm started. That young man down there cannot have heard the impact, but he would have heard if there had been a fight. Dimmock, you should get him down to New Scotland Yard and ask him again, without his bodyguard. And ask the people who left the building what they saw, and if there was anyone around whom they didn't know. Something is wrong with this whole affair, but I can't think of what it is."

Detective Inspector Dimmock looked only mildly impressed, but John knew that Sherlock was just getting started. Sherlock turned back to John and spoke to him, if only as an excuse to not speak to himself. "Numbers are important. The numbers are essential. Why are they essential? Thirty and seven for this man, thirty and eight for the other. They are both too old for the numbers to match their age. Coordinates, no, not coordinates. The time is out of joint."

John laughed out loud at this, making Sherlock look at him sharply. "What?"

"You just quoted Hamlet."

Sherlock's face was a question mark and John bit his tongue as to not laugh again, knowing fully well that there was a huge difference making fun of Sherlock's lack of general knowledge in private, or to do it in front of members of the police force. He swallowed, but then he realised that Sherlock's expression was indeed rather strange. "What do you mean by that?"

"The other man, back in Shepherd's Bush. He is Italian, and he had not adjusted his watch to London time." He looked over to Dimmock. "That is what I meant when I said they didn't fall at the exact same time. The other man did not fall at seven, but at eight."

"Which is still seven," Dimmock argued, clearly still not quite ready to let Sherlock run free with his theories.

"That is not important."

"Right. So what do we have here?"

"Murder, but not just some petty crime, no, this is big, and I am positive that there will be others. Not the same as this, but somehow related. They want to draw our attention to something, all I have to figure out is what that is. I think we are done here for now. Do get the man down to the Yard and let Lestrade talk to him."

And then, taking one last look over the edge of the roof, he turned and gently took John's arm and pulled him with him.


	3. Chapter Three

It took them only minutes to walk home, but after Sherlock unlocked the front door he stopped and leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"John." He sounded somewhat frustrated.

"What is it?" John stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face.

"You were right. I should have slept. My mind is not working the way it should and I have to sleep, but I also have to eat, apparently," he put his hand on his stomach and winced. "There's no right way about it. Whatever I do, it'll slow me down, and it's all because I didn't listen to you."

John smiled and stood on his toes, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I have an idea."

"Really? I'm intrigued."

"No, you're not. You already know what I'm up to, aren't you?" John smiled and walked upstairs, enjoying the feeling of coming home again.

Sherlock took his coat off and dropped it on his chair just to dramatically throw himself on the couch. John winced internally, thinking of Sherlock's scar. "You prepare dinner, I sleep," he announced.

Sherlock fell asleep immediately, leaving John to make risotto after he had spread a blanket over the sleeping form on the couch. He was done faster than he had intended, knowing that if he woke Sherlock now, he would most likely not go back to sleep afterwards. Well, maybe he would get tired from eating and sleep properly for a night, but that seemed somewhat unlikely.

He tiptoed into the sitting room and looked down on Sherlock. It was strange how he was so different in private compared to his arrogant and aloof self when he was working, as if he was afraid that by showing some normal human behaviour he might be considered anything else but genius; that he would rather be called a freak and be treated differently than everybody else than risk showing any weakness. John felt his heart swell at the thought that Sherlock let down his guard so completely around him, especially since he had admitted to not quite figuring John out yet.

He had had no idea what Sherlock meant by that, because he certainly wasn't too complicated a character. But then John remembered that Sherlock had witnessed him having the nightmare earlier, and that it must have surprised and confused him to see John like this.

And then there was the issue of him running away, locking himself up in his room while Sherlock clearly knew what was going on with him. John suddenly felt the strong urge to apologise to him. It must have seemed to Sherlock as if John had bared his soul to him as Sherlock had tried to wake him up from the nightmare, and he had consequently felt the need to pull away and get some distance between him and Sherlock when it came to opening up and being honest. It must have seemed as if John didn't trust him completely, and that worried him.

He did trust Sherlock, despite the conflict that had arisen, but it was all going so fast. He remembered why he had usually taken it slow with his relationships, and somehow he had always told himself that it was the women who needed time, who needed to build trust; but this time it was undeniably he himself who was overwhelmed and confused by his feelings for the sleeping man on the couch.

He inhaled deeply and walked back into the kitchen to eat, sitting down at the very front of the table to be able to hear if Sherlock woke up. Something told him that Sherlock would sense it if he stood there, staring down at him. John knew that Sherlock probably preferred food to sleep, because even if he was full and his metabolism was overriding his brain, sleep meant immobility, it meant lost time that he could have used effectively. And it was ultimately harder to persuade Sherlock to sleep than to eat, although, if things were going to go the way he hoped they eventually would, Sherlock might just enjoy _wasting_ time as much as making use of it. Now that he thought about it, he realised that Sherlock hadn't once objected to cuddling and it had strangely enough always been John who had moved away first. That in itself was a small miracle.

John chuckled around his fork and imagined Sherlock sitting across from him, watching John eat while his eyes were wandering inquiringly over his face.

Just when he was getting lost in his fantasy, John felt two long arms sneak around his shoulders and soft lips attaching themselves to his neck in a mirror image of what he had done earlier.

"You're supposed to be asleep," John said amused, trying to suppress a shudder that would have given away his state of mind.

"I couldn't, not when I knew you would eat alone."

"Wait, so you didn't even sleep?"

"I did sleep, but then I woke up because you were watching me and that was curiously distracting."

"I wasn't ... never mind. Do you want to eat something?" John wanted to get up to prepare him a plate, but Sherlock kept his hands in place, even though with Sherlock's height it must have been a rather uncomfortable position. His lips started to move, small kisses pressed against his skin and John blushed, lightly, but obviously. When Sherlock reached his jaw and moved up, pressing a kiss right under John's ear, he coughed nervously in order to keep a different, much more embarrassing sound from escaping his lips.

"My John," Sherlock whispered again, smiling against his skin. His hands held on tighter for a minute and John felt his heartbeat pick up speed. Sherlock opened his mouth and gently bit his earlobe and John's eyes fluttered closed. Whatever Sherlock was up to, John wouldn't run and hide this time.

When Sherlock moved on, leaning closer and kissing along his jaw, John turned his face, waiting for him to find his lips, but Sherlock seemed content just to kiss his chin for a while. When he opened his lips and let his tongue dart out to lick at the corner of John's mouth, John moaned shamelessly, moving his head again as to finally kiss him.

With a wicked grin, Sherlock moved away, leaving John breathing heavily and aroused while he still held eye contact. And then, with an even wider grin, Sherlock suddenly disappeared and his arms let go of John and a second later he tipped the chair back, making John yelp in surprise as he pulled back so far that Sherlock could lean over and finally kiss him, only that Sherlock was upside down. Or maybe John was, he couldn't quite make up his mind, because his brain was on overload, trying to comprehend what was happening. Sherlock had clearly lied to him when he had said that he was not trying to surprise John. Sherlock had also gone from being accidentally sexy to experimental, which made John extremely uncomfortable in his trousers. And he had clearly realised that John could be teased incredibly easily, which hinted at a very interesting future.

Sherlock was kissing him deeply and thoroughly, as if he had wanted to do exactly that all day. His right hand cupped John's cheek while the other held on to the chair. It was utterly hot to John. For a few moments John just let Sherlock kiss him, but when he started to kiss him back, John could feel Sherlock's control slip and when John moaned against Sherlock's lips, he could feel the chair shake dangerously. A second before he would most certainly fall, John grabbed the table and pulled himself into an upright position, leaving Sherlock to jump away to avoid being knocked out. Both of them were breathing hard now and John couldn't quite let go of the table just yet.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock sounded too purposeful under the circumstances and John turned around, facing him.

"For what?"

"You just solved a case." He smiled, unconsciously touching his lips.

"Does that mean you didn't just do this for the purpose of kissing me?"

Sherlock blushed lightly, which wasn't exactly the reaction John had anticipated. "Well, I don't think I could have thought of that without previously knowing about the position." He cleared his throat, almost nervously, and John's heartbeat quickened even more. Sherlock was being adorable again. "I don't suppose I'm creative like that," Sherlock explained quietly. "Anyway, I had a case of a broken neck a while ago and while the suspect insisted that it had been an accident and that there had been no fight, I now realise that I was missing one important detail in the equation." Sherlock sounded wistful and John wondered if Sherlock had regrets about always trying to be rational. Thinking back, the few mistakes he had made in his deductions usually stemmed from his misconception of irrational and emotional behaviour. "Well, considering I almost let go of the chair just because you ... did that ... thing ..." he stopped and it took all John had not to explode from the overall need to cuddle Sherlock and never to let go again.

He knew perfectly well that Sherlock would be mortally offended if he would start telling him just what he thought in that second and he knew that Sherlock was having a hard time as it was trying to express his own emotions. He might have considered their mutual affection a given, but it didn't mean that he could talk about it without blushing, and this delicious insecurity made John fall in love all over again.

Sherlock sounded honestly surprised about his deduction. "Of course, I didn't plan on breaking your neck, but I do understand how it might have affected the man. This is most strange."

John smiled and finally let go of the table. "You're such a liar," he said, causing Sherlock to step back in shock, his eyes wide open only to narrow very quickly. John enjoyed his little moment of triumph and moved towards Sherlock, still smiling. His smile seemed to calm Sherlock a bit, but he was clearly still unable to comprehend why John would say such a thing and what the consequences might be.

John ended up a foot away from Sherlock, who stood with his back to the wall, unable to move away any further. Standing this close to Sherlock at that moment was a revelation for John. It was obvious that Sherlock was confused by John's accusation and his mind was replaying everything he had said that might have caused John to call him a liar. However, he was also very clearly trying to calculate John's action, and, as a glance below Sherlock's waist line confirmed, hoped for some sort of physical confrontation. What struck John most, though, was the look on his face, the blush and the insecurity that made him look so young. It was as if Sherlock was really out of his depth and comfort zone but still kept his head up stubbornly, if only to pretend to be in charge, even when he really wasn't. John knew that Sherlock hated being out of control, he had said it himself, but right in this moment, Sherlock enjoyed it. He enjoyed being surprised and unable to foresee what John would do. He was clearly intrigued.

John felt a shiver run down his spine and he had to fight to not lose his smile in favour of a predatory expression that was trying to steal its way onto his features. Sherlock certainly was no easy prey, but John had him up against the wall without difficulty and it was obvious that John was the one in control, the one to call the next move, and Sherlock patiently awaited that move.

The look on Sherlock's face changed into something that John could only define as want. His mental list of 'new things about Sherlock' had grown significantly during the past few minutes. He had seen Sherlock want something. He always wanted something; he wanted information, he wanted to know, he wanted to understand, he wanted to be right; but this want was different, this want had none of the self obsessed and egoistic touch that the other moments had. This want went deeper, much deeper, beyond Sherlock's control and, probably, also his consciousness. The fact that Sherlock was indeed unaware of his own reactions apart from the obvious physical ones had triggered John's comment in the first place.

Sherlock simply didn't know that he was indeed creative, that he had proven it quite a few times already during the past few weeks. He also wanted to surprise John, and he wanted to impress him, and, most of all, he wanted to tease John and see how far he could go with him. And John was more than willing to test how far he could go with Sherlock. He closed the gap between them, watching Sherlock inhale sharply and lower his chin in anticipation of a kiss. John smiled and gently put his hand on the other man's hips, making sure he'd stay in place.

"You lied to me," he said again, this time with a whisper. "You pretend to do things for work while you are actually just too shy to ask for them. You pretend for things to have a purpose because you can't imagine doing something just for the sake of doing it. And," he licked his lips, making sure that Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his mouth, "you are incredibly creative. I'm fairly sure that you fantasise, that you imagine what my reaction might be to something that you do." Sherlock's breath caught and John knew he was very close to the truth. He let his eyes roam over Sherlock's face, stopping at his lips, which opened involuntarily and John had to bite back a noise that would have destroyed the moment, because he was trying very hard not to let out a small squeal that would express his glee at being able to put Sherlock into the position he was in. So instead he tried to keep his cool and tried to do what he had seen Sherlock do a million times: Control his expression and let him see only what he wanted him to see.

Leaning in even closer and lifting his chin as if in preparation for a kiss, he could finally see Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, and, succeeding in his plan but being almost too turned on by its unexpected impact, he almost didn't manage to move away. John reminded himself that he was the one in control, so he let go of Sherlock's hips and stepped back quietly, watching Sherlock for a few seconds, eyes still closed, a light frown on his face, a frown that spoke of complete concentration. John finally let himself grin. He exhaled a little too loudly, so Sherlock could hear that John was now four feet away from him instead of four millimetres, where he clearly belonged, and the frown grew deeper for a second until his eyes snapped open. John decided it was time for flight, so he turned and started for the stairs.

Sherlock took exactly one second to recover his wits and in a flash he was at John's heels chasing him up the stairs, catching him by the wrist and spinning him around, almost throwing both of them down the stairs. With a noise that made John's knees give in so that he had to hold on to Sherlock for support, Sherlock moved in on him, crushing their lips together with all the pent up frustration the few seconds of John's teasing had unleashed in him.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I didn't have access to my computer the last two days, this is why there was no update :p posting a couple of chapters today to make up for it :)

The kiss was very much like the kiss in the kitchen before Sherlock had left for Canada, and John was sure that if Sherlock would groan again like he just had, he couldn't guarantee their safety. But then Sherlock moved up so he was on the same step as John, two hands full of John's jumper, and John was sure that Sherlock was just as desperate as he was and that maybe Sherlock wasn't sure how far they should take this either.

"Sherlock." John groaned his name against the kiss. "Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't stop and only moved his hands from John's back to his head, holding him in place as he attacked him with even more vigour than before.

"Jesus Christ!" John was sure he would come just from kissing Sherlock, and it would indeed be embarrassing and also probably rather inappropriate. Good lord, why was he thinking about what was appropriate right now? Sherlock certainly did anything but think at this moment.

"Sherlock stop!" One last attempt, he promised himself, knowing that if they didn't stop now, his body would take over and there would be no more rational thoughts involved. For a few seconds, Sherlock didn't react, but then he suddenly stiffened and made a noise close to a sob that worried John. He pulled back carefully, looking quite guilty. John blinked to regain some composure under Sherlock's searching eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, but John quickly pressed a finger against his lips. "Don't say anything," he said, his voice hoarse. "I know what you are thinking but it is not that."

So Sherlock looked at him, waiting for a reaction. First things first, John thought, and leaned in again to press a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips, moving his finger just so that his hand was resting on Sherlock's cheek. Then, because Sherlock's expression was still worried and guilty, he smiled at him, letting him know that he had done nothing wrong.

"I ...," he started, having to clear his throat, "I'm sorry, I just had to stop. I couldn't stand ..." Sherlock's eyes widened as if in fear that John might have actually disliked the kiss and it almost brought tears to John's eyes. Sherlock shouldn't be so insecure about all of this, not when he had just kissed him like he just had. John shook his head to signal Sherlock that he knew what he was thinking. At least he hoped that he did. "No, I mean, I couldn't stand up, in the literal sense. God, Sherlock, you make me lose my mind."

That seemed to console Sherlock a little, but he clearly didn't know whether the 'losing mind' part was meant as a compliment. John had to chuckle and pulled Sherlock close, pressing his face against his shoulder. "You haven't done anything wrong," he explained, "in fact, it's more like you do everything right, and you don't even know it." Sherlock relaxed against his body, his hand coming up against his head, his thumb gently rubbing the nape of John's neck, making him shiver and tighten his hug. "I would suggest that you be more confident about it, but obviously confidence is that last thing you lack once you let your body take over."

Sherlock exhaled audibly and cleared his throat. "But I promised you that I would respect your limits and I didn't, again. And after what happened today I know I need to be careful with you."

"No." John pushed himself away to be able to look at Sherlock. "No, you don't. I won't break, I promise. Whatever you do, I'll come around eventually."

A flash of interest in Sherlock's eyes made John swallow, but Sherlock was quickly back to being serious. "I should respect you more. And don't tell me that I'm doing this right, because I am quite aware that I am not. You were right, I lied to you. I lied to you so many times just because it was so much easier than explaining everything, or because I knew you wouldn't approve." He let go of John completely and sat down on the stairs, folding his hands. "And I always knew that you were aware of me doing it, and you have always been so very patient with me that I told myself to be more careful, to be honest with you for our sake. I wasn't ... in love with you ... I think, or maybe I was, I'm not sure, but you always came back."

John stared down at Sherlock and realised that this went much deeper than just their little row. He sat down next to Sherlock and pressed his shoulder against Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes went wide again as he stared ahead and a small smile tugged at corner of his mouth, remembering the reversed conversation between them. But the smile vanished when he realised that his answer was also the one John had given him.

John pressed harder for a moment. "So you see, we both come with baggage, right? And all we can do is trust that neither of us will take advantage of that knowledge to hurt the other. And even if we do, accidentally, because we're upset," he smiled a little and nudged Sherlock's shoulder once more, "or bored, we just have to know that we don't mean it, right?" Sherlock didn't answer, but John knew that he agreed.

"When I realised what you had done in Canada, god, I was so angry with you." He could see Sherlock wince and hurried on. "I just wasn't prepared to be ... I don't know ... dragged into a case that I didn't know I was already involved in. And I wanted to hurt you. I really wanted to hurt you, on purpose, and with the full knowledge of your weaknesses." For the first time, Sherlock looked at him, his eyes dark and inquiring. John brought up his hand to gently touch his face. "And it was scary, because I knew I could have. I never had that much power over anyone. My sister, yes, but she always shot back harder, but really, you ... you trusted me so completely that I could have hurt you, even if you sometimes pretend that you are beyond such things." Sherlock sat very still, sensing that John wasn't done yet.

"And I was so glad that you weren't here then, because I would have regretted doing that, I still regret even having had these thoughts."

The carefully blank look on Sherlock's face gave way to something that seemed almost like happiness, something that should have confused John, but he knew Sherlock too well; it meant that some pieces of a puzzle had jumped into place. His voice was very calm when he spoke. "That is why you always walked away. It wasn't because you hated being around me, but because you would have tried to hurt me and you ..." Were those tears in his eyes again? Sherlock swallowed audibly. "You went away because you knew you would hurt me if you stayed."

John looked back at him, his thumb unconsciously drawing lazy circles on Sherlock's cheek. It was obvious, wasn't it? Why had he not realised that sooner? Oh right, because he had never ever thought that his relationship with Sherlock went deeper than that of colleagues and flatmates and eventually friends. "Did you really think I walked away because I hated you?" John remembered the question that Sherlock had asked in the pub when he had spelled out to him why he knew how much beer John had.

Sherlock nodded slowly, clearly wanting to react differently, but this was about being honest with each other, and so he was.

"Sherlock, how long have you been ... when did you start to ..." Bloody hell, this should get easier with time, but somehow it didn't. "When did you know?"

A long arm came around to hug him closer and with a turn of his head, Sherlock suddenly kissed the fingers that had until then still caressed his face. "I'm not sure. I think I knew you were special when you shot the cabbie." Something in his voice suggested that Sherlock knew of the importance of that day, not only for their relationship, but for John's progress. "Before that I was just testing you, to see how you would react and if you would stay. And you did not only stay, you also went along with me and you saved my life when I was stupid enough to throw it away, just because there was nothing truly exciting in my life." He smiled and kissed John's temple. "I think you saved my life in more ways than one."

John felt himself well up yet again because everything Sherlock said made sense and it was difficult to imagine that he had thought about it differently before. "I guess we really met at the right time, huh?" He could feel Sherlock nod and they were both quiet for a long moment. Then a grumble from Sherlock's stomach disrupted the silence and both of them started laughing with pure relief, holding on to each other, laughing until they had trouble breathing.

John wiped his face and gently kissed Sherlock who immediately kissed him back passionately. "There is still dinner for you ..."

Sherlock stood up and pulled John with him, as if he meant to say that if he had to eat, he wanted John by his side to entertain him. With a smile he sat down at the kitchen table and waited for John to serve him, just as the original plan had been.

He ate the whole plate and when John put down a cup of yoghurt in front of him, he ate that, too.

"Do you feel better?" John sounded normal, like he always did, and Sherlock was obviously relieved. John had read the fear in his eyes, the fear that after their conversation things between them might change, grow awkward or uncomfortable. But none of that had happened, and so he allowed himself to relax.

Sherlock nodded and looked at John who smiled back at him widely. "Good."

John stood up and put the dishes into the sink and switched on the kettle. "You're going to have tea, take a shower and then you will sleep, understood?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Don't patronise me."

John just snorted.

And Sherlock did as he was told. He drank a whole mug of camomile tea to calm down his upset stomach and while John was doing the washing up, Sherlock showered and got ready for bed. He wore a t-shirt, John noticed somewhat disappointed. He had looked forward to saying good night to a shirtless Sherlock, but apparently, there was a reason for the shirt. Two options came to John's mind; the first was that Sherlock wanted John to take it off, and the second that Sherlock knew he needed sleep and he knew just as well that a t-shirt might just make the difference between a good night's sleep and a night spent awake in an aroused haze. The second one it was then.

Sherlock stood in the door and watched John dry his hands. "Are you joining me?"

John smiled and tipped his head to the right. "Do you want me to?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?"

"You didn't ask me to, you asked if I generally was going to," John pointed out, knowing that Sherlock understood that he was imitating him.

"Am I really that annoying?" he asked, frowning.

John laughed and draped the tea towel over the back of a chair and followed Sherlock upstairs. "You go to bed, I'll have a quick ... shower and then I'll be right with you."

Of course Sherlock had notices the small pause and John could feel himself blush yet again, but despite their rapidly evolving relationship, he was still not ready to address the issue. He wanted to take his time this time. After the uncontrolled wank he had had earlier, he needed to be sure that he would not be immediately turned on by Sherlock as soon as he was in bed with him. The thought that Sherlock might just have done the same a few minutes prior made it very hard for him to be slow about it, so in the end it was over rather quickly and he didn't quite manage to be quiet.

Sherlock didn't say a word when John walked into his bedroom, dressed in sweatpants and t-shirt, just to be sure. He looked up, relaxed and very obviously tired. In the whole year that he had known Sherlock, John had never once seen him as tired as he had looked on this day and he was proud that he had managed to get him to sleep, at least sporadically. And now he would sleep for a whole night. John switched off the light, this time carefully side-stepping the piles on the floor and making it to bed uninjured.

"I took your pillow," Sherlock announced when John carefully lay down.

"I hoped you would," answered John, feeling distinctly happy. Sherlock took that as permission to move closer and when John didn't object, he wrapped him up in arms and legs and held him close.

"Thank you, John," he whispered into his ear.

John wanted to ask for what, but he knew that Sherlock would not go to sleep if he did but start listing all the things he was thankful for. "I'm glad you're home," he answered instead, turning his face to kiss him once more before closing his eyes to feel Sherlock slowly falling asleep next to him.


	5. Chapter Five

The bed was cold when John woke up. He kept his eyes closed for a while and pretended that Sherlock was still wrapped around him. No dream had disrupted his sleep, and despite the obvious lack of body heat next to him he felt incredibly happy and well rested.

Downstairs, he found Sherlock dressed to the nick, the scarf already around his neck, but his feet naked on the coffee table, moving as if they had a life on their own. He was typing away on John's laptop. Sherlock didn't look up when John entered, but he seemed unable to keep the smile off his face which slowly took over his rather serious expression.

John remained silent as well and walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Only when John put down a cup of tea and a toast for Sherlock did he look up and the smile widened, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I love you, too," he said, sounding very proud of himself.

John laughed and leaned over, offering his lips to Sherlock, who took a second to watch it before he carefully leaned in to kiss him. When John pulled back, Sherlock followed him, trying to steal another kiss or two, making John smile against his lips.

"Eat," he said eventually, walking back into the kitchen to get his own tea and toast.

"Any news on the case?"

Sherlock's smile faltered and he turned the computer around so John could see the glaring headline: **Police out of their depth, double suicide, not murder!**

"Lestrade is furious. Somebody leaked false information to the media and now he has to close the case. I should have been more thorough."

"You'll still figure it out." John was sure that it was only a question of time. Closed or not, the case intrigued Sherlock, and whether the police was involved or not, he wouldn't let it go.

"Yes, probably, but I still should have been able to understand it. It must be a reference to something. The numbers, the places, it was clearly staged."

Holding his toast between his teeth, John balanced his tea cup and the newspaper towards the couch. "D'sn mk sns." He spoke around his toast, causing Sherlock to look up at him, amused. John leaned closer, pressing his shoulder against Sherlock's as he ate his toast, pretending to look at the screen while he was really watching Sherlock's long finger's type. When Sherlock had finished his search and started scanning the news he let his right hand drop on John's thigh, squeezing gently, only to lift it again a second later to scroll further down the page.

Suddenly, his breath caught. John tried to see what Sherlock had found, but he couldn't quite find anything extraordinary in between reports of the fiscal crisis and the local London theatre news.

Sherlock closed the laptop and turned to him. He clearly wanted to say something; probably order John to get dressed so they could go out and investigate, but as he looked at John, the purposeful look changed into something else, and for a few seconds he just looked at him, and John looked back, wide eyed.

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

John jumped, Sherlock didn't. "And good morning to you, too," Sherlock said, drily. "You do know that it is considered to be polite to knock."

Lestrade only snorted. "Right, you of all people talk of being polite? You never complained before, anyway."

John expected Sherlock to stare Lestrade down at that point, but he didn't; he didn't even turn to face Lestrade, his eyes still fixed on John's face. And John had blushed scarlet; he could feel the heat radiating from his face.

"Before," Sherlock said, licking his lips, “I didn't care. I do care now." And with a small smile, he leaned in and kissed John, who sighed against his lips, suddenly not caring for the audience that was nervously tapping the door frame with its fingers. "Oh come on, now, can't you do that some other time?"

"You were the one who interrupted us rather rudely. You should be glad you didn't walk in on us having sex." Sherlock's voice was dangerously low and it took all John had not to throw himself on Sherlock and give Lestrade something real to complain about.

Eventually Sherlock turned away from John and smiled his brightest obviously fake smile. "The BBC it is, then?"

"I don't even want to know how you know ..."

"Someone _fell_ from the balcony of the BBC building downtown, really? Let me guess, the balcony is exactly thirty feet high and he _fell_ this morning at seven o’clock?"

"Are you coming or what?"

"We'll be right behind you." Sherlock sounded happy, and who could blame him, really; he had managed to both surprise and embarrass Lestrade in a single minute.

When Lestrade left, John hid his face behind his hands, uttering a small undignified cry. "Oh my God did this really just happen?" He was still red in the face and he wished that the ground would swallow him up. Sherlock gently pulled his hands away from his face and looked at him a little worried. "Not good?"

John frowned and grinned at the same time, still looking a little mortified. "How am I supposed to ..." Sherlock looked at him, waiting for him to finish his thought. "God, Sherlock, how am I supposed to show up at the crime scene and behave as if nothing happened? Did you see the look on his face?"

It was obvious that Sherlock had no idea why John was behaving like this. He had planned to make Lestrade uncomfortable, but he hadn't expected John to be so affected. "I'm sorry?" John noticed that apologies seemed to work really well on him, and maybe, just maybe, Sherlock biting his lower lip did the trick as well. Either way, John threw himself at him, wrapping his arms around him, kissing him hard.

"I hate you." John was out of breath when he said it, and he knew it sounded too much like a declaration of love to be misunderstood by Sherlock. But before Sherlock could react, John was up and on his way to his room to get dressed. While he buttoned up his shirt, he couldn't stop thinking of the way Sherlock had talked about sex. It had sounded natural, as if the situation might actually not have been too far from reality. Good god, maybe it was time to talk about it with Sherlock, and maybe Sherlock was just patiently waiting for John to come around. But then he thought of how strongly Sherlock had reacted to physical contact, how intense it had seemed. No woman had ever reacted to him like this, and he was sure that Sherlock didn't really do sex.

"John?" Sherlock knocked, even though John had left the door open, just in case Sherlock decided to spy on him. He grinned when he turned around, noticing that Sherlock was now wearing shoes. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

"Good, the cab is waiting downstairs."

"Alright." John put on his shoes and walked out of his room, wondering what they day might bring. He knew that as soon as they reached the crime scene, Sherlock would become his usual cold and calculating self, but he didn't mind. And he might be able to witness a rather disturbed DI at the crime scene, who would certainly try to avoid any sort of confrontation with Sherlock. With a grin he walked down the stairs behind Sherlock and he might have just lightly brushed his hand over Sherlock's arse as he stepped into the cab, feeling him tense up, even through the thick fabric of his coat. Oh yes, this was definitely going to be an interesting day.

"John," Sherlock said gravely, "we are going to investigate a murder, you might want to stop grinning."

John broke into giggles and gently punched his arm. "I hate you," he said again, and he saw Sherlock's stern expression give way to a smile as he turned his face away from John and to the window.


	6. Chapter Six

It didn't take them long to get to the BBC and Sherlock was deep in thought when they stepped out of the cab. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen, but that did not mean that he was not present; hiding somewhere, probably.

John looked up at the balcony from which the man had supposedly jumped. Just as Sherlock wanted to duck under the police tape, Anderson showed up and planted himself in front of Sherlock, arms crossed.

"What is _he_ doing here?" he demanded.

John felt his heart sink. Somehow, since his talk with Greg about how important Sherlock was to everyone here, whether they liked him or not, he had believed that even Anderson might have come around. Obviously, he hadn't.

"I'm here to go up and jump right after him to prove the yellow press right." Sherlock seemed unaffected, but John knew better.

"Greg ... Lestrade called us in," he explained.

Anderson shook his head at them. "We have this under control."

"As always," Sherlock snapped back, now seemingly upset about something, but from where John stood he could see that Sherlock wasn't even looking at Anderson. "Where is he?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade came jogging out the building. "Good, you're here!" No trace of discomfort or anything else that might hint at their little moment earlier was showing on his face. The case really must have gotten to him. "Sherlock, please tell me you have a theory. The press are going mad over this. They’ve already called it a trend."

Sherlock brushed past Anderson, leaving him to stare after him.

It seemed as if Sherlock wanted to go into the building, but instead he stopped in front of the main entrance, next to the body, and looked up at the balcony again. "Thirty feet. Why thirty feet?"

Lestrade looked at him, hopeful that he might come up with something. "Neither the height nor the time prove anything. They show that the deaths are linked, but it might just be a really strange suicide pact or something."

"No, I'm sure it's not that. The numbers are supposed to tell me something."

"Tell _you_ something?"

Sherlock looked at the detective inspector with something like a sneer. "I wasn't in any shape to come down to help you with this case and still it is puzzling enough for you to involve me. You don't get close to solving the crime, and it is obvious that somebody took great care to make sure there are no clues and traces except for the ones that will lead me to the next murder."

"Clues and traces? How?"

"It's obvious. John?"

John stepped closer, too close in fact, so that he hastily took a step back again, seeing the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch. "Do you remember where the first body was found?"

John thought about it, but he hadn't really paid attention to the street name. All that had been important was that it had been at the as yet unopened shopping centre at White City and he couldn't for the life of him imagine why that should be important. He looked up at Sherlock, shrugging, so Sherlock looked on to Lestrade, who looked equally clueless.

"How do you even ..." Sherlock started, but then looked back at John and stopped, knowing that his little outbursts of superiority were unwelcome. "Do you at least remember the name on the house in Charlotte Street?"

"Ariel House," John said, "there was an engraving on the building that read Ariel House."

Sherlock smiled and John knew that he had said what Sherlock had wanted him to say. "Ariel Way," Sherlock offered then, trying to make John see the connection. "Obvious!"

Then he took a few steps back and looked up at the building again, his eyes fixed on the statue over the main entrance, a bearded man holding a child. John could see the thoughts race through his friend's mind, but suddenly, Sherlock uttered a cry and turned around to him, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, taking his head in his hands, and planting a sloppy kiss on his lips. John staggered backwards, too surprised to think about the consequences of Sherlock's action. Sherlock's expression was a mixture of pride and excitement. "John, you are brilliant!"

That confused John even more than Sherlock's strange behaviour, especially since it was the first time since he had known Sherlock that he had complimented him on his intelligence.

Somewhere behind them, Anderson made a rude remark, but neither of them bothered to comment. Lestrade appeared behind Sherlock, a little red faced, trying obviously to ignore the scene that had just presented itself to him.

But before he could say anything, Sherlock had already turned back to the building and grinned up at it and then knelt down to examine the newest victim. The body showed similar signs as the other two, apparent death by falling onto the pavement from a height of thirty feet. "Clever," Sherlock murmured as he hovered over the body.

John got down on one knee next to Sherlock, trying to sort out his muddled brain. Sherlock had just kissed him, in public, in front of the one person who would make sure that the whole city would know about it by evening. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at him, cracking a smile. He was still proud, John could sense it, and yet he had no idea why. "You just kissed me in front of everybody."

"Problem?"

"No, ... it's just that ... bloody hell."

Sherlock grinned down on the corpse and John realised how insanely inappropriately they were behaving. "Greg might kill us."

Sherlock looked up again, a gleam in his eyes that told John that even though the kiss had definitely not been planned and probably surprised Sherlock just as much as it had surprised him, he enjoyed the side effect of irritating Lestrade more than he should. Both of them started giggling and tried to focus on the task at hand.

This time, Sherlock took off the dead man's shoes, checking the soles of his feet, whistling when he spread the toes and found sand. "John?" He wanted to include him, wanted him to see, but he didn't explain. Possibly, John thought, a little desperate, he now believed that he was able to draw conclusions in ways that Sherlock could. Sand, why the hell would the dead man have sand between his toes?

Sherlock started going through the pockets and shook his head grinning as he pulled out a bundle of keys which were held together with a key ring that had a little silver plate attached to it. He held it up to John's face so he could read the engraving: _A Storm Is Coming!_

"This will lead us to the next one."

How in the world was he supposed to understand what the engraving had to do with the sand between the dead man's toes and the other two corpses ? What did it have to do with anything, and why was Sherlock convinced that he knew where the next murder would take place because of something John had said or done that he couldn't even remember.

"Lestrade, tonight at seven, someone will die at 80 Strand," and turning back to John, he said quietly, "and it's not Moriarty, John." Sherlock smiled, knowing that John would be relieved to hear that.

"How can you be sure?"

"Whoever did this made it too easy."

"Easy? Sherlock, nobody has any idea what's going on and even you didn't, until very recently at least ... how is this too easy?"

Sherlock stood up, and John felt eerily reminded of the milk incident in the kitchen, because he rose too fast, blinking away the white spots of light behind his eyes, trying to keep his balance until his blood finally reached his head. It was almost like a déjà vu, but of course the spilled milk on the kitchen floor was now a broken human body and Sherlock wasn't wearing his pyjamas, the legs rolled up, but his usual black trousers, polished shoes and coat.

"There, case solved," Sherlock murmured from above him and John's heart skipped a beat. He grinned up at Sherlock, who looked down on him with a fond smile.

John stood up and turned to Lestrade who had witnessed their little moment with a rather frustrated expression. John promised himself to give him a call later to apologise for their unprofessional behaviour.

"What else can you give me? You can't just tell me to show up at an address and expect me to do it without any further details on the matter."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said calmly, "you asked me for help, that's what I'm doing. I can't prove to you that these are not suicides and I suggest that you don't let the press know of any further development yet. Leave them under the impression that these were indeed suicides and that this one is just a copy of the other two. The man was drunk, by the way, as to keep up appearances that he might have accidentally fallen. You could always try to portray these incidents as unrelated. Don't let anyone know about Strand, at least not yet. Take a blood sample; it might be a drug of some kind that caused them to fall. Give me a call when you need me again."

He turned and gave the building another satisfied look. "Such a neat little puzzle."

They walked home, and John had to walk fast to keep up with Sherlock. Now that he had found something to dig his teeth into, he seemed unstoppable. He had seen Sherlock in this state quite a few times, and at times he had regretted Sherlock being so preoccupied with his work that he had neglected not only sleep and food, but also conversation and human interaction of any kind with John. Now he didn't have to worry about that.

He still didn't understand what had happened and why he was sure that it wasn't Moriarty who was behind those murders, but John trusted Sherlock's deduction.

They passed a second hand bookshop, and Sherlock stopped abruptly and walked in, and without a glance at the startled owner started to purposefully roam through the aisles, brushing his index finger along the backs of the books. With a disappointed sigh he stopped at the end and turned around. "Need the new one, then."

John tried hard not to be frustrated by Sherlock's sudden outbursts of ideas. He would explain everything to him later. He always did, eventually.

"Alright, let's go home, John." Sherlock smiled and was out of the door again, leaving John to apologise for their sudden intrusion and even more sudden exit.

When they came home, Mrs Hudson was waiting for them. "Sherlock, Detective Inspector Dimmock was here, well, he is here. I tried to tell him that you were out but he insisted on waiting for you."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He sounded almost disappointed, and it was the first time since they had arrived at the third crime scene that he could interpret Sherlock's words the right way. He took Sherlock's hand in his and gave him a gentle squeeze. John knew that Sherlock would not let go of the case, but he might just as well think out loud while he was cuddled up to John on the sofa, something that would now have to wait.

Dimmock was standing by the window, looking slightly nervous. "Lestrade doesn't know you're here," Sherlock stated; an observation of a fact, not a guess.

The man shrugged apologetically but went right down to business. "We talked to Graham McKinley, the young man from Charlotte Street. He somehow has problems remembering what was going on, he didn't even seem to remember you at a point this morning and I am not sure what to make of that."

"He's pretending, obviously. Or, maybe, he's really very scared. Either way, he'll not be able to help us."

"Mr Holmes, I understand that you see things others don't, but you told me to take him in for questioning and now you are telling me that I shouldn't have?"

"No, I didn't know yesterday. I know now. John figured it out."

"I did what?" John asked from the kitchen where routine had made him switch on the kettle automatically and he had started sorting out cups to make tea. "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did." Sherlock was smiling again, something that seemed to irritate Dimmock greatly.

"Okay, stop flirting," Dimmock interrupted, and for only a second Sherlock seemed confused by the fact that he appeared to know something when there was no way that he could. There was the tiny chance that Anderson might have texted the whole Yard, but that was very unlikely. Only when the DI raised a questioning eyebrow did Sherlock realise that his confused expression spoke louder than any text by Anderson could.

"What did you figure out?"

John just shrugged, looking at Sherlock in the hopes to finally be filled in.

Sherlock let himself fall on the couch with a small smile. "You said I quoted Hamlet, John."


	7. Chapter Seven

"I did. I mean. You did. But I thought you didn't know ...," John was confused and not a single step closer to understanding what Sherlock was actually talking about.

Sherlock inhaled and it was obvious that he was yet again biting back a remark that would have been unwelcome. "I did delete it, yes, but when you said I quoted Hamlet I realised that my brain must have kept a bit of information that might have seemed somehow important at the time. I said something that did not make sense to anyone, not even to me. I could have said something else entirely, but then again, it must have been relevant somehow. Then I remembered that Hamlet is that strange man who talks to a skull," Sherlock said it as if it was something entirely absurd and John burst out laughing, but checked himself again when Dimmock shot him a disturbed glance. Sherlock's face was entirely straight, but the tiny movement of his eyes from the DI to John and back told John that if they had been alone, Sherlock would have laughed as well. Instead he just continued unimpressed by the interruption. "But there is no Ariel. Now, there must have been a reason for the location, both places being connected to Ariel, and for the time being I was not sure what to make of that. The BBC was the missing clue." He pressed his hands together in front of his chest in a strange imitation of prayer and then looked back and forth between John and Dimmock.

A few seconds were spent like this and John felt the need to say something constructive, but his mind was still preoccupied with the image of Sherlock kneeling on the floor, whispering _Alas, poor Yorick_ to his skull.

"John, focus!" Sherlock's voice was low and demanding and did anything but help John to concentrate.

Dimmock looked at Sherlock, patiently waiting for him to start harassing him about his bird brain and his obvious lack of basic observation skills.

Then, suddenly, things fell into place and John shook his head, slightly confused by the process in his head. "The Tempest. Ariel and the key ring, you're talking about the Tempest. But how does the BBC ...?"

Sherlock sat up straight, looking as pleased as if he had managed to embarrass Lestrade in front of his colleagues. "Precisely, John, the Tempest. The statue over the entrance is a statue of Prospero and Ariel."

"Right. I see." John was pleased that Sherlock was proud of him, and it was funny to experience this usually reversed situation. But then, thinking more deeply about it, it still didn't really explain anything to him. He tried to look cute when he voiced his concern, "but how do you know about Strand?"

Sherlock was looking at him in a strange way, as if he couldn't decide whether he should just explain everything patiently to be able to look at John being purposefully adorable or whether he wanted to shine in all his brilliancy and unleash a stream of deductions which both John and Dimmock would have a hard time following.

Eventually, he seemed to settle for the former. "It's the reason why I know it is not _him_."

Dimmock knew nothing of Moriarty, at least not from him, so he wouldn't mention his name in front of the DI, even if John might not be so careful.

"He's too obvious. He made it too easy at this point."

John sighed, and turned to go into the kitchen to get the tea. Sherlock would tell him, and since Dimmock was obviously impatiently waiting for further explanations, he might as well amuse Sherlock by dragging things out a bit.

When he came back and handed Dimmock a cup, he knew that the young DI was about to explode, only kept back by John's niceties and the fact that he knew that he would finally get some vital information out of Sherlock, if only because John wanted to know.

John put down a cup on the coffee table, leaning closer to Sherlock than strictly necessary, smirking at him, letting Sherlock know why he had done it.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock leaned back. "The artist of the statues, Eric Gill, is also responsible for creating a set of characters, letters, which were bought by Penguin and used as the font for their New Penguin Classics series. John, the dead man had sand on his feet, in his socks and shoes, fine white sand, not from the Thames, he has been to a beach. The Tempest is set on an Island, and the part where Prospero meets Ariel is most likely set at the beach. Now, the German word for beach is _Strand_. Penguin's headquarters are on 80 Strand. Obvious."

"Fantastic!" John shook his head in disbelief, earning a small smile. "Sherlock, I ...," he stopped himself, before things got out of hand, but Dimmock seemed too busy thinking about what Sherlock had said to care for their little moment. Eventually he caught himself and sighed. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he concluded. "Is this supposed to be helpful in any way?"

Sherlock got up and opened the door for him. "It is, in fact. I suggest you have a little chat with Lestrade on the matter, maybe you can make him understand why a man will die tonight at seven at the Penguin headquarters. Oh, and maybe ask Graham McKinley if he liked Shakespeare. Good day."

Dimmock drank a bit of his tea before putting down the cup, slowly making his way to the door. "Why do I have the feeling that you find this whole episode amusing?"

"That is a rhetorical question," Sherlock stated, impatiently tapping his fingers against the door frame.

"Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson." He nodded at John, who smiled at him and watched him slowly make his way to the door. "Mr Holmes, I'd appreciate it if that man will actually not die tonight because you figured this out in time. If he does, you might be in trouble." And with another nod into John's direction, he vanished through the door.

John stared at him, and then at Sherlock. "What is he saying?" he demanded, frowning.

"Well, the usual."

"What ...? Sherlock, what is going on?" John knew what the problem was, but he refused to believe that the police would be so hateful when it came to the man they so obviously depended on.

Sherlock walked back to the couch, clearly not wanting to explain to John that he was still considered dangerous by most of the yarders and that his eerie ability to predict the odd murder did not help him to clear his name. "John, come here?"

He sounded tired again and John was sure that he was still upset with Dimmock for showing up at their flat when he really had wanted to be alone with John; at least he hoped that was the reason.

"We need to tell Mrs Hudson to not let them in again, or anybody else for that matter," he added as John sat down next to him. "Look, remember what Donovan said to you when you met her for the first time? The implication that I might kill someone out of boredom one day, well, this opinion still sticks. Not everybody thinks so, but it's always an easy thing to say when they are out of their depth."

John took Sherlock's right hand and kissed his palm. "You might kill yourself out of boredom, yes, but never another person. You wouldn't do that. I'll talk to them."

"No, John, please don't. They are idiots and they won't care for what you have to say, especially not now that they know that we are ..."

John dropped his hand, still holding on to Sherlock's. "Yes?" What were they, really? Boyfriends? Ridiculous. Lovers? Not yet. Partners? Well, they had been partners before.

"Together," Sherlock concluded, making John smile. Yes, together they were, thankfully.

"Sherlock?" John still needed assurance. "Please tell me again why you think that it is not Moriarty's doing?"

Sherlock smiled and moved his arms over John's back and tugged him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. Somehow, this gesture made John ridiculously happy. "First of all, because neither of us was targeted. Second of all, because the clues were too easy to follow after you found the lead. Third of all, Moriarty knows that I would never ever be able to follow a clue that has to do with Shakespeare."

"What?" John couldn't help but laugh at that and at the same time hated that he was amused by anything that had to do with Moriarty.

"He knows me, he has his spies, and he must have read all of your little charming blog entries about me. One of them states that I might be able to cite any odd chemistry book, but that Shakespeare and other canonical works of literature are surely beyond my interest."

John blushed, knowing that Sherlock didn't like his random and rather amusing observations about his lack of common knowledge.

"And that is how I know. So you have been brilliant not only once, but twice." Sherlock grinned and pressed his forehead against John's temple, breathing hot air against John's ear and neck.

It was greatly distracting, and John didn't quite know why Sherlock seemed so immensely proud of him, but he didn't complain.

"Anyone could have read the blog," John argued, still not satisfied. He could feel Sherlock tense next to him, clearly annoyed that John wouldn't just shut up and kiss him.

"I mean it," he turned and moved away a bit so he could look at Sherlock. "What I wrote on my blog about you ... it might actually hurt you, especially if Moriarty reads it. Maybe he knows better than to trust my opinion. If there was a chance of you remembering a play that you may or may not have read in your past, he would know about it, don't you think?"

"I understand that you are concerned, John, but I am fairly sure ..."

John kissed him to shut him up, and it worked incredibly well. With a sigh Sherlock leaned into John and brought up his hands to draw them lazily through John's hair. John loved that he did that; it made him feel protected somehow, and wanted; yes, it made him feel wanted.

When he pulled back again, Sherlock grunted in frustration but he let go of John. "Just promise me that you will be careful. Don't think you're safe just because he hasn't signed his name next to the bodies. I need to know that you will be careful and aware that he might want to lead you into a trap. I can't have that. I can't lose you."

Sherlock's eyes were roaming over his face as if he was trying to memorise his features. "You won't lose me," he said, sounding somewhat nervous, "but if he's behind this, I need to stop him."

"You don't think the murder tonight will be the answer to the puzzle?"

"No, I'm sure that whatever happens tonight will reveal a new clue. I don't know how long the chain of events will go, but if the numbers are anything to go by, there will be quite a few deaths to come."

John was shocked at the prospect. "Do you really think that is what the thirty feet are about?"

"I don't know, John, but I am sure that the numbers are somehow important. It could be the seven, too, or something entirely else. I have to get the files from Lestrade to see if I missed anything."

"You won't go out again, will you?"

"Well, I can't just send someone, can I?"

John was disappointed and it must have been showing rather clearly on his face, because Sherlock smiled a crooked smile that made John's heart beat faster. "I like that," Sherlock said, seemingly surprised by his own reaction.

John didn't want this exclamation to stand in the room without further elaboration. "You like what?"

Sherlock grinned and stood up, making his way into the kitchen. "I like you, looking at me like that. You make me feel … special." The last sentence was spoken very quietly, but John had heard it anyway.

"That is because you are. God, Sherlock, you have no idea how special you are."

There was a long silence from the kitchen, only interrupted by the occasional rustle of plastic wrapping, and when Sherlock returned, he carried a plate with biscuits. "No, John, it's not that."

John frowned, not understanding what Sherlock was trying to say.

"You make me feel special, and not in the way that I know I am. I mean, that is rather obvious." John couldn't help but shake his head with a grin, silently chiding his arrogance but unable to deny that he was right. "You make me feel special in a way that I have never known. You like me, and not for my intellect, but in spite of it. You want me, me, who thinks that emotions are just distractions and that being nice to people is something you do to manipulate them and not because you just want to be nice. With you, I want to be nice."

John was a little shocked by that confession, and he could see in Sherlock's face that he hadn't quite meant to say that much.

"Sherlock," John's mouth was dry and he wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands, so they rested awkwardly between them on the couch. When he didn't know what else to say and nervously licked his lips, he could see Sherlock's eyes focus on his mouth. It made him smile, which in turn, made Sherlock smile as well.

"Sherlock," he tried again, "before the library, when I made tea and you came into the kitchen and you surprised me and ... well, I was really confused by what I was thinking. Did you want to kiss me or did I just imagine that."

The smile on Sherlock's lips grew wider. "I did."

"Why didn't you? Kiss me, I mean."

Sherlock's right eyebrow rose. "You weren't ready."

"Maybe I was?"

"No," he took John's hands and brought them up to his face. "You weren't, but you were much closer than you had been before. If I had kissed you then, you would have panicked, and even if you might have enjoyed it, your reaction would have been to run and not look back. It would have been a problem for you simply because it wasn't proper and you would have left, and I couldn't let you leave."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

John exhaled, slowly. "So you watched me all this time hoping I'd come around eventually?"

"I knew you would."

"How could you know? I didn't know you were an expert in matters of the heart."

Sherlock snorted, kissing John's hands. "I never pretended to be. However, I am not blind, and I know the signs. I know how people tick, John, and I had plenty of experience, seeing people do all kinds of things, including falling in love. It never happened to me before, but then I never knew that someone like you existed. Your emotions were all over the place, but when it came to me, the only obvious reaction I triggered in you was protectiveness and the rather charming need to comment on my every move, might it be brilliant or," a short but grave pause, "stupid. But every now and then there was something else, something intriguing that you had in check most of the time. So I tried to surprise you, see how you would react and see if you might understand that maybe there was something else than protection you wanted to give me. And when I saw you in those moments it was obvious, but you didn't know it yet. You didn't allow yourself to see. I think that was when I fell in love with you. Nobody ever looked at me like you do, John."

John's heart was beating so hard he was sure that Sherlock could hear it. Now this was really a rather grand confession, and he was sure that he would never ever say a word to anyone about what Sherlock had just told him. It was as if he had suddenly found a way to express his emotions which he had never been able to before and John wondered whether it was his doing. A little light headed, he moved closer to Sherlock but halted an inch before their lips met, wanting Sherlock to initiate the kiss. He did, and with a sigh John let himself be embraced by Sherlock's warm body.


	8. Chapter Eight

John wanted nothing more than to stay in Sherlock's arms for the rest of the day, but even as they held on to each other, he could sense Sherlock's mind racing. He needed to let him go and think so he could solve the case. John slowly pulled pack and smiled when he felt Sherlock tighten his embrace for a second before letting him go.

Sherlock smiled at him. "It is really quite extraordinary." John looked at him, calmly, waiting for him to explain himself. "Touching you," Sherlock offered, but John still just looked at him. With a sigh Sherlock settled back against the couch, gently squeezing John's knee. "I told you before that it has a calming effect on me. I did not expect that to be the case, but somehow it works. It's as if I can channel my thoughts a bit better. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Touching you arouses me and it increases my heart rate and adrenaline flow. It's really quite curious."

John found it hard to breathe. Only Sherlock would be able to draw a scientific conclusion about his bodily functions like this when they hadn't even talked about sex. Suddenly John wondered what would happen to Sherlock if they did actually have sex. He pictured him stopping suddenly in the middle of things because he solved a case that had been puzzling him for years.

"What?" Sherlock seemed confused by the impossibly wide grin that had taken over John's features.

John laughed and shook his head. "Nothing."

"John?" Demanding now, and John felt a greater part of his blood leave his head and settle in his groin.

"Nothing, I'm just...," he couldn't tell Sherlock, not without sounding like a complete idiot. "I think it's time that I took your stitches out." John congratulated himself for confusing Sherlock yet again, but if he was honest with himself, he hadn't expected a 180 degree turn in his thoughts either. Somewhere in his brain there must have been a panic button that managed to shoot off an idea that would get him out of uncomfortable situations. Well, not that he was entirely out of the uncomfortable situation, but at least Sherlock had something else to focus on now.

His eyes were narrowed as if he was trying hard to read John but not quite succeeding. Holding his breath, John waited for Sherlock to either insist on discussing his thoughts on the subject of arousal of body and mind, or, which he rather hoped, to direct his attention towards his scar.

With a small grunt that sounded altogether too sexual in John's ears, Sherlock shook his head lightly and then pulled up his shirt. "I'll get the kit," John said and stood to get his bag. He tried to ignore his arousal, but when he couldn't resist looking down on Sherlock, he found him staring right at the bulge in his trousers.

Oh dear Lord!

He remembered that he had left his bag in his room, so he walked up the stairs deliberately slowly to gain time. This was getting ridiculous. Why wasn't he able to just talk about it? It was obvious that he wanted sex, and even though he had known it before, Sherlock had just told him to his face that he aroused him. He inhaled deeply and grabbed the kit, turning around slowly to walk back down. Breathe, John Watson, he told himself, just breathe.

He felt somewhat calmer when he came back, finding Sherlock in the exact same position as he had left him, his fingers still holding up his shirt. "Do you think it will be visible?"

"Hmm?"

"The scar, will it stay?"

John felt his heart sink. He still felt guilty about it, and knowing that it would always be there now, reminding him of how he almost lost Sherlock before he could tell him how he felt – before he really knew how he felt – was causing his stomach to clench. "I could rub lotion on it and massage the scar tissue to make it less visible ..."

"No, John," there was something in his voice that didn't sound at all like Sherlock. He sounded gentle and careful, as if trying to make John see that he had misunderstood him, which he usually did by blatantly telling him that he was wrong. "I want it to be visible. I want it to stay."

"What? Why?" John looked up at him, meeting Sherlock's eyes which were, like his voice, anything but cold and inquiring, but gentle and soft. He had to blink a few times to make sure that he didn't imagine it.

"You saved my life," he simply said, but seeing in John's face that yet again he needed more information to comprehend what he was trying to say, he continued. "You shot me to save my life. This will always remind me of your bravery, of your love. You marked me, I want it to stay."

"Sherlock!" John wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry. He meant what he said, that much was obvious. But it was also ridiculous and so completely unlike him that he had a hard time believing that Sherlock was being serious. But then he remembered how anxious Sherlock had been about the bruise that Moriarty had left on his back, how badly he wanted to make sure that it would disappear again. He hadn't asked about the scar. For a minute he was overwhelmed with love for the other man who had, in the course of a few days, changed so significantly. It reminded him of what Lestrade had said to him on that first night and it made him smile.

"John, are you okay?"

"Yes," he swallowed and only now realised that there were tears on his face. "I'm sorry." He wiped his face and opened his bag, producing pincers, scissors and disinfectant. "Lie down."

Sherlock smiled and started unbuttoning his shirt. He could have just as well pushed it out of the way, but again, Sherlock seemed to enjoy John's eyes on his skin. John felt goose bumps on his own skin as he watched Sherlock undress. He removed the plaster and started cleaning the area with the disinfectant, watching Sherlock suck in his breath when his right hand came to rest on his hip just above his belt. With a smile, he blew air over the now wet area on Sherlock's waist and drew a gasp from him. Flexing the fingers on Sherlock's hip to hold him in place, he carefully cut the blue thread. The cold metal against his skin made Sherlock jerk just the tiniest bit and John couldn't help enjoy every second of it.

"Hold still," he chided Sherlock, who had, as John found out as he looked at his face, closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip. Well, that was not helping him to concentrate at all. "It's not going to hurt, but it might be a bit uncomfortable."

"John, I've had stitches removed before." He sounded somewhat impatient, more like his old self again, but John smiled, knowing that Sherlock didn't mean to be annoying, but that he couldn't help himself.

"Right." He started pulling out the first, watching in fascination as it vanished from Sherlock's skin, leaving two small, red marks on either side of the scar tissue. He had never thought of the process as fascinating, but then again, he had usually not removed the stitches from a wound he had caused and stitched up in a fever rush after barely escaping death. Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the pink flesh.

"John!" It was more a groan than anything else, and he realised that he had not kissed Sherlock anywhere close to his waistline before. Good God, how had he not noticed how tight Sherlock's trousers were so close to his face!

Exhaling shakily and causing Sherlock to shift lightly again, he moved on to the next thread. After all ten threads were removed and ten kisses pressed to the scar, John used a cotton swipe to disinfect the skin again and then got up to throw it and the blue threads away. Sherlock propped his head up on his hand to be able to look at the wound. Twenty tiny red dots neatly enclosed the trace of the bullet. He drew a finger over it experimentally.

"Thank you, John."

John smiled at him, fighting the urge to just jump on the couch and touch the man who was obviously just waiting for him to take the initiative. Just as he decided that he would think a little less and feel a little more, just as Sherlock had suggested, a loud knock interrupted his thoughts. John jumped.

"Are you decent?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "No," said John.

Lestrade carefully opened the door, and exhaled audibly as he saw the six feet distance between the two men. John held his medical bag while Sherlock's hand rested next to his scar, so it was obvious what had been going on before he had entered. John shrugged and made his way upstairs to take his kit back to his room. When he came down, Sherlock was standing by the window, his shirt back on.

John could see from his posture that something was wrong.

"What is it?"

Lestrade turned to him, offering him a file. John took it and opened it, reading the report that Lestrade had just filed. "Man dead at 80 Strand, apparent suicide."

"No, that is impossible." John couldn't believe what he was reading.

"I underestimated him," Sherlock said through clenched teeth, his hands balling into fists. "It's wrong, the time is wrong!" He sounded as if he tried to will the murderer to see sense and stick to the rules.

"Sherlock?" John stepped closer but stopped again when he saw him tense up even more. "Do you think ..."

"I'm sorry, John, I was being stupid." It was more of a growl than anything. "I think you were right. I did not want it to be him, not so soon. I should have listened to you. I should have ..."

Lestrade had exchanged a meaningful look with John when Sherlock admitted to being wrong. "Listen, Sherlock. If this is Moriarty, we better make sure we get him this time."

Sherlock turned around with a swift move, staring at Lestrade, who seemed to shrink a fraction. Sherlock didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes told Lestrade what he thought of that. "We need to try, at least," the DI argued, looking at John for help.

"John, you are staying here," Sherlock ordered harshly, making John and Lestrade wince. "You will not leave the house, and you will have Mycroft on standby. I will tell him to send someone for your protection. Whatever happens, you will not leave the house!"

Before John could say anything, he rushed past him, grabbing his coat, not bothering to wear his jacket underneath despite the cold outside. When he had half heartedly thrown his scarf around his neck, he walked back to John and took the file from him, his face set in grim determination as he took equally determined steps towards the door. However, in the second before he stepped outside, he stopped again, pressing the file against Lestrade's chest who took hold of it, and turned, crossing the room in long strides, pulling John against him, crushing their lips together. "I love you," he breathed, and was gone.

A little shell shocked, John watched Lestrade follow Sherlock outside, clearly uncomfortable having witnessed such an intense moment between the two. John moved to the window and watched how Sherlock actually got into the police car, something he had avoided like the plague in the past. "Be careful," John whispered against the glass.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments = <3

John was trying to stay calm. The thought that Moriarty might yet be the one behind the murders made him very nervous. Sherlock's quick reaction and decision hadn't given him any time to think, never mind a chance to make his own decision.

He should have gone with him; he was sure that the only reason why he was still at home was Sherlock's quick reaction, and John hated the fact that he wasn't with him. If Moriarty was indeed involved, he wanted to be with him; he needed to be with him to make sure that he would be okay, and, if he wasn't, make sure that Moriarty would die with them.

Surprised, John realised how bitter he was. He did not want to be like that. He had his principles but he also knew that he was different than most people, because he had killed before. He had killed for his job, for his country, and, in the past year, he had also killed for his friend. It felt strange to know that he would not hesitate. If he was going to face Moriarty again, he would take him down, there was no doubt about it.

Tea, yes, tea was definitely in order. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the fire place and was scared by it. He looked angry but determined. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Switching on the kettle, he called Sherlock's number, hoping that he remembered John's rule about answering if he was physically able to do it.

"John?"

He didn't know what to say. He really just wanted Sherlock to talk to him, to take him through the course of action while he sat at home, hoping that no harm would come to his friend.

"John? Is everything okay?"

"Yes, no. I ..." I hate you for leaving me again.

"I'm sorry."

"What? I didn't say that out loud." How in the world had Sherlock known his thoughts?

"Well, it's obvious what you think. Anyone could guess."

"You should have let me come."

"No, I need you safe. And there is still the chance that it might not be him after all, so ..."

"Sherlock."

"John?"

"Come home again, okay? Solve this case and come home."

"I intend to do exactly that."

"Good." John couldn't quite keep the smile out of his voice. "Call me when you know more. Please, don't forget. I need to know what's going on. If you don't call me I'll go and find you."

"That sounds an awful lot like a threat." Sherlock sounded amused, but John could hear that he was also very nervous.

"I will."

"John, we're here, I will let you go."

"Be careful."

"Do I get a reward for being careful?" John could actually hear Lestrade snort in the background and he couldn't quite suppress a nervous laugh.

"You might?"

"Tell me." There it was again, the demanding tone. John felt very hot all of the sudden.

"Anything you want, Sherlock. Anything."

"That does sound promising."

"Oh Christ," came from Lestrade.

John wished he could see him smile. "Just come home in one piece, oh, and alive while you're at it."

"Will do."

"No good bye." He felt ridiculous; like a teenager, really. But apparently Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"No, John, no good bye. See you later."

John listened to the cut off line for a while, enjoying the feeling that had substituted his anger and anxiousness. He was nervous, but in a good way. If Sherlock took it into his hands to initiate things, he would follow him wherever he wanted to go.

Knowing that he would be spending the day inside, he opened his laptop and started to write up the case of Carl, the man who burned money. He wondered whether he should write about Sherlock's inability to take care of himself, but he dismissed the thought with a grin. His enemies knew enough about his weaknesses, he decided.

It took him almost an hour to write the entry, because he had to think back to the moment when he had felt so betrayed, so vulnerable that it had almost choked him. He knew that Sherlock felt guilty about it, but he also knew that he would never understand completely why John had felt like this.

Rubbing his eyes, he decided to let it go once and for all, concentrating on the brilliant way in which Sherlock had managed to fool a man who could not be fooled.

Carl. What had Sherlock talked to him about? He was itching to know, but also aware that he would have to wait until the case was over to be able to go and talk to him. And Sherlock probably wouldn't want him to, because he had clearly avoided talking about the time he had spent with Carl. Was it possible that Sherlock had told Carl something that he wasn't ready to tell John?

Frowning, he scrolled through his text, reading over it again and thinking of the many times that Sherlock had insulted his intelligence for typing the most trivial facts when he should have focused on the process of deduction. A dark thought pushed through his uncertainty. What if Sherlock did not want him to know about the conversation because he had spoken about John in a negative way? If he was honest, and he had to be with Carl, he would have told him about how unbearably plain he could be at times, and how he usually missed the most obvious clues. What if Sherlock had said what he thought about John that did not just fly out of his mouth in moments of annoyance or just because he didn't know better. What if that was really how he felt about him?

"John Watson, you utter wanker." He spoke loudly, to scare away that ghost that was trying to cling to his thoughts, leaving a lump in his stomach. John knew he couldn't call Sherlock now after he had told him he had arrived at the crime scene and was trying to figure out whether they were safe from Moriarty, which was obviously the priority.

John took his phone and called DI Dimmock. He was positive that the Detective Inspector would be anything but happy with his call, but he needed to solve this problem before Sherlock would get wind of it.

"Detective Inspector Dimmock speaking."

"It's John, John Watson."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes." He didn't quite know how to start.

"Why are you calling then? Oh, and before I forget it, I do apologise for my remark earlier. It was not right of me to suggest that he had anything to do with the murders." He spoke quietly and John guessed that Sherlock must have been close by.

"Thank you."

"But don't tell him that I said that."

John had to laugh. "Are you at the crime scene?"

"Yes, it's exactly the same death as the other three. It's completely ridiculous, and _he is not helping_." He said that loudly, as if to make sure that Sherlock heard it.

"Listen, could you move away from him a bit?"

"Erm, okay?"

"I have a question, no, more of a request."

"Is it important?" Dimmock sounded annoyed, but he seemed cooperative enough. Maybe he would be glad of any chance to leave the crime scene for a while.

"I need to talk to the man from Canada, the man Sherlock brought with him."

"Carl Whistler?"

"Yes, I need to speak to him."

"He is in custody."

"I know."

"I could get you in, but I need a good reason for it, and a further good reason why you don't want Holmes to know about it."

John bit his lip. He couldn't tell him the truth, and Dimmock would never agree to let him see Carl if he told him he needed to make sure that Sherlock loved him, even though he had told him several times and he had never ever talked about his feelings before and still John wasn't able to believe him when his mind told him that there was a slim chance that Sherlock had told a living lie detector how he really felt.

"I need more details for my blog."

Dimmock was silent for a while. "You are serious." It wasn't a question. "Don't you have a job or something to keep you occupied?"

"No, that _is_ my job!"

"Now?"

"Sherlock told me to stay in but I am crawling up the walls here, I need to do something, and I believe I'll be pretty safe in prison, no?"

"Alright, he's not in prison, to be exact. He's at the Yard. We still haven't finished with him."

For a second, John imagined medieval torture methods, but he suppressed that image rather quickly. "So I can go down and talk to him?"

"If you must."

"I do."

"I'll meet you down there. I've been here for a good ten minutes and he's in a form, I tell you."

John chuckled. "He's frustrated."

"I will not even start to think of what you are trying to imply with that."

John blushed and decided that it was definitely time to stop talking to the DI. Lestrade must have shared his very own frustration with his colleague.

"Nothing, but the case is not going according to his liking."

"Right. I will see you at the Yard."

"Thank you."

The flat was uncannily silent after he hung up, and John wondered why Mrs Hudson hadn't come up to check on the flat as she usually did when Lestrade came by.

He was starting to let fear and irritation get the better of him again. This needed to stop.

Knowing that he could not bring his gun down to New Scotland Yard, he took it downstairs and hid it in a pocket of his summer coat. Then he knocked on Mrs Hudson's door to tell her where he was going, but she didn’t answer the door.

He was almost out of the door when a new horrifying thought gripped him. What if Moriarty was in the house and had done something to their landlady? He took a few steps back and knocked again, much longer and louder this time. "Mrs Hudson?" he called, wondering if he would be able to pick the lock to see if she was inside.

"Dr. Watson?" The front door had opened and Mrs Hudson stood in it, three bags of shopping in her hands, a quizzical look on her face.

John exhaled and leaned against her door, relieved that his paranoid mind had just played a trick on him.

"Mrs Hudson, I need to ask you to stay inside and to not open the door for anybody. Please promise me that you will just be here, watch some telly and wait until I come home again before you do anything else."

Mrs Hudson's expression told John exactly what she thought about his strange behaviour, and hadn't it been for the grocery bags, he was sure she would have checked his temperature. "Are you quite serious?"

"Yes, I am afraid you are not safe. Sherlock cares about you, that makes you a target."

"Did the lad get in trouble again?" She sounded anything but concerned.

"He might be in trouble, yes. But please, trust me. Please stay in and wait until I am back. Keep close to the phone, too."

"You are scaring me, Doctor." She sounded rather bored, and John wondered whether she had somehow inherited Sherlock's character trait of being desinterested if nothing particularly interesting was going on.

"Mrs Hudson, I will go out. In case Sherlock comes back, please tell him I am safe."

"Oh, alright dear, take care of yourself."

John nodded and then left, taking a cab down to New Scotland Yard.

Dimmock was waiting outside, his arms crossed over his chest, looking rather cold.

"Thank you for doing this for me," John started, but the DI just shook his head. "Anything better than being told to stop thinking. I don't know how you can bear it."

John smiled. "I also get to experience him when he's in a good mood, so it's alright."

Dimmock laughed, rubbing his hands together. "I doubt that he even knows what being in a good mood means to the general public."

He took John through several long corridors to a part of the building that he had never entered before. "Why do you keep him here?"

Dimmock smiled. "He's been rather helpful since he arrived here. His gift is extraordinary. If I didn't know it better, I would almost say that Mr Holmes has a competitor now. Mr Whistler cannot be fooled. So be careful what you say to him, he will call you out on any lies and inaccuracies."

"I know, that is why I need to speak to him."

"Alright, here we are."

He unlocked a door and let John walk through. "You have fifteen minutes, then I'll come and get you. I need coffee."

"Thank you very much."

"No problem. It's quite extraordinary how much my mood has improved since I left the crime scene."

"He's not so bad, you know, when he likes you."

Dimmock laughed. "Exactly." With a wave, he left John alone.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning; if you're claustrophobic or have a problem with physical/emotional violence, this might get a bit hard to read. It's not super bad, but just so you know that things get a bit dark from here.

John found himself in a long corridor which led into another room. He knocked and opened the door and found a rather comfortable office, which held a desk and several chairs, a couch and a coffee machine, but no window.

A tall blond man sat on the couch, reading a magazine. When John came in he looked up and smiled. "You must be John."

John was irritated, but knowing that the man must have been Carl, he nodded and closed the door behind him. "How do you know who I am?"

"Sherlock mentioned that you might be coming 'round to see me."

John felt a blush creep into his face and he suddenly felt incredibly guilty for not trusting Sherlock. He wondered what Sherlock would say about his visit, and he really didn't want to think about the implication of Sherlock's complete knowledge of him.

"I'm sorry for just barging in, but I have been meaning to talk to you since ... well, since you came back."

Carl smiled and walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself a coffee. Dimmock’s excuse to get coffee had obviously been a white lie so John could be alone with Carl. To John's surprise, Carl picked up the phone and asked for someone to bring John tea. "He told me you prefer tea," he explained with a smile.

"You've made yourself useful, I see."

"Better than jail any day."

"Right." John smiled sheepishly.

"How did Sherlock know I would come to talk to you?"

Carl sat down at the desk and nodded towards the chair across the table. "Because he knows these things."

John had to smile, remembering that he had used that phrase to explain to Carl why Sherlock had known about the fire. "I know that it's very unprofessional, but I need you to tell me what he said about me."

The other man leaned back and looked at John, who felt rather self-conscious under the stare; somewhat like he might when Sherlock fixed his enquiring gaze on him.

"I just ...," I'm extremely insecure about my own feeling towards another man when I have always considered myself to be completely straight? I know he said he loves me but it's not enough? Or maybe it is because I know that he does, but I can't believe that he would love me? Me, ordinary, boring, stupid John Watson. Or maybe I just don't feel ready for this? Maybe I'm not able to trust him? Why am I here? I do trust him. I could have just asked him.

Carl's expression changed from inquiring to confused. "John, why did you come here?"

Well, he had to say something. "I just want to know if he told you something that he did not tell me. I mean, you can't know about what he didn't tell me but you know ... maybe he spoke to you about me? No, I'm sure he did. What did he say?"

"He did talk about you, but I think it's not my place to tell you." It sounded final.

"Please. Did he say anything? Anything he wouldn't want me to know because I might take it the wrong way?" John knew that he only had minutes before Dimmock would return and he needed answers.

Just as John was trying to explain himself further, a knock made him to close his mouth again. A young, slightly battered young woman brought in John's tea. "Do you need anything else, Mr Whistler?"

"Thank you, Miranda, that will be all."

John was slightly confused, but then again Carl did have a gift, and if he managed to help the Yard, they would probably try to keep him in good spirits.

"All I need to know is if he said anything that he might want to keep from me, anything that I should know?"

"Anything bad, you mean? Well, he did mention quite a few things to me, yes." The smile on his face was unnerving. "He said that he has never spent so much time doing nothing, well, nothing in a sense of not working. He said that he felt his concentration slip quite a lot, that you were distracting to a degree that he would choose kissing you over working." He stopped, clearly wondering if he should go on. John's heart was racing and relief was washing through him. Knowing Sherlock, it was obvious why he did not want to tell him that, because John knew that his work was and would always be Sherlock's priority. But now he was clearly a contender for the number one spot.

"There was another thing, though. He didn't say it, but it was pretty much obvious. He thinks that you should be less insecure about you and him, about your relationship, especially the physical aspect of it." He seemed honest, but John found himself wondering whether he could trust him. He could tell him anything and John would have to take his word for it. But Sherlock had trusted him. He had eaten food that Carl had brought in from the wilderness; if that didn't speak of trust, then little else would.

John blushed deeply yet again, and he hated himself for developing that rather distracting and uncalled for habit. Just as he wanted to ask how he knew about all of that if Sherlock hadn't explicitly told him, the door opened and DI Dimmock entered. John's hand automatically reached for the tea and he spent the next minute drinking it deliberately slowly.

"So, any progress?"

"Yes," Carl answered. "I think I was rather helpful here."

"So you're done?"

"I believe so."

John put down his cup, and coughed, nervously. "Did he say, or not say, anything else that I should know?"

"Just know that he doesn't lie to you, he just doesn't always tell you the whole story. So don't mind my last observation too much, I am sure he'll eventually come around and talk to you about it."

"Right." John was trying very hard not to think of the implications of that last fact that he had been presented with. Was Sherlock sexually frustrated while John thought he was doing him a favour by taking things slow? Were those uninhibited kisses just a glimpse of how much he needed John? God, and he had thought that Sherlock might secretly dislike him, even subconsciously, but apparently he was just annoying him, in the most enjoyable way possible. He was distracting, and Sherlock didn't want him to know so he wouldn't stop being distracting.

"Thank you. I will make sure that the story is told in its entirety."

Carl just grinned at the blatant lie. "Have a good day, John. Say hello to him, will you? It was rather enjoyable to be tricked like I was. Doesn't happen every day."

Dimmock rolled his eyes but John had to smile. "He's something special, isn't he?"

With a small smile, he walked out, waiting for Dimmock to catch up and unlock the outer door.

"Did you get everything you wanted from him?"

"More than that," John smiled. It was suddenly very hard to keep the silly grin off his face. Turning away, he couldn't help but let it take over. His fears had been just that, fears, and his insecurities were completely unnecessary. Sherlock himself might not have been the most self confident man when it came to their relationship, but now that he had heard it from another source, he trusted his own feelings much more.

"Lestrade just called, I'm supposed to come back out. And _he_ is apparently in a state knowing that you ignored his order. Do you want to come with me?"

"I would like to come with you, yes, but I think I'd rather stay away from him for a while."

The DI was confused, and it showed on his face. "Why would you?"

"Long story, but thank you for letting me talk to Carl. Has he been talking to the young man you brought in yesterday? You know, Graham McKinley?"

Dimmock looked at him in a way that made John feel rather uncomfortable. "I know you work with him and all, but I think there is still some classified information that I can't just hand over to you."

"Did or didn't you let Carl talk to him before you sent McKinley home?" John didn't know what the young DI was being like this. It was the most obvious thing to do and if they could get Carl to help Sherlock, most questions would be answered within a day.

"Letting criminals mingle isn't such a great idea, Dr. Watson."

"Letting a self-proclaimed sociopath loose on a crime scene isn't such a great idea either."

"That is different."

"No, it's not." John felt frustrated, both at Dimmock and at himself for trusting Carl so immediately. "You know they would be brilliant together."

"Please, let it go. I can't tell you anything else about it."

"Right."

"Alright, will you get a cab?"

John nodded and walked towards the main road. "Thanks again," he said, turning around one last time. Dimmock nodded.

John's thoughts drifted back to Sherlock when he sat in the cab. If everything that Carl had told him was true, then he really should talk to Sherlock. But maybe he wouldn't have to, considering the promise he had made.

With a smile he closed his eyes and let a wave of anticipation sweep through him.

When he woke up he was immediately certain that something was very wrong. John blinked but then closed his eyes against the darkness that surrounded him. For a few seconds he just observed, but then panic started to take over. He was alone, in the dark, it was cold and he could smell moist earth. For a moment he thought he might have been buried alive, but then he realised that the air was fresh and that he had no trouble breathing.

A dream, he thought, it must be a dream. He automatically felt for his pulse and it was surprisingly low. His right hand came up to his shoulders, but he couldn't feel blood or broken skin. Only then did he notice that he was soaked through, and incredibly cold. Wherever he was, he needed to warm up. John tried to move and found to his infinite relief that he could. No restrictions, no tape, nothing. He felt along his body, checking if there were any bombs or anything similarly horrible attached to him. Nothing. A relieved groan escaped his lips and he could hear a faint echo. By the sound of it he must have been in a large room, possibly a factory hall? But why was it so completely dark?

"Mycroft! It's not funny!" He needed to yell something, needed to keep the panic at bay. There was no answer, no reaction, only his own voice that hit a wall and reproduced the sound in a strangely distorted way.

He needed to think. Why was he here, how had he come here? He was supposed to be in a cab, going home, waiting for Sherlock. Suddenly he found it hard to breathe, his stomach in knots. He had not trusted him - he had not listened to him and now he had put himself and possibly Sherlock in danger. His betrayal went even deeper than he had feared.

With shaking fingers, he searched for his phone. His clothes were wet, as if he had been dragged through the river, as if he was supposed to freeze in this cold and moist cellar. He found his phone and it took him a while until he could pull it out of his pocket with stiff fingers. God he felt cold. For a moment John just held his phone in his hand, feeling the comfortable weight of it, hoping that the battery was strong enough to shed some light in this complete darkness.

Praying for it to work, he switched it on and had to shut his eyes at the incredibly bright light that suddenly pierced his eyes. His sigh of relief was followed by a groan when he saw just how low his battery was.

For the first time he thought of sitting up, and when he did so, his head started pounding. Had he been hit over the head? He couldn't remember whether he had ever reached Baker Street. He could, however, remember closing his eyes to the thought of Sherlock ... his heart ached. Why had he been so stupid?

When he trusted his legs enough, he stood, letting the blue light of his phone screen flicker over the ground. It was even and looked like wet cement. He slowly moved forward until he reached a wall. The room wasn't quite as big as he had thought, but it was completely empty. He walked along the wall until he came to the adjacent one, and when he had walked once around the entire room, he was sure that he hadn't felt any crack or disruption in the concrete that would suggest a door or window. How in the world had he come here?

Sherlock, he needed to call Sherlock. John had no idea how long his battery would last, but if he called him he would at least hear his voice and ...

"Don't be ridiculous," John chided himself. He didn't have time to be sentimental. Blinking against the bright light of his phone he called the number of Lestrade's office at New Scotland Yard. It took a while until someone answered, and John had never heard the name before.

"This is John Watson. I have been kidnapped. I need you to find me. I'm not being threatened or anything, I just need you to find me and get me out of here."

"Mr Watson, I am sorry. I can't really do ..."

"For Christ's sake, where is Lestrade?"

"Sir, please stay calm. He is not in, can I take a message?"

John laughed, his brain counting down the seconds until his phone would give out. "Tell him I have been kidnapped. This is my number, but my battery is low and I need him to find me. Trace this call!"

"I am sorry, I cannot do ..." the line broke off and John saw the light on the screen grow dim and finally go out. "Fuck!"

John leaned against the nearest wall and tried to stay calm. With his phone dead, he didn't know whether it would be possible to trace him. He should have called Sherlock after all. He would have been able to talk him through this, find a clue as to where he was. Now he was alone, freezing and thirsty. God, how long had he been unconscious?

Breathing deeply through his nose, he checked his pulse again. Still very low. This wasn't normal. Maybe he had not been knocked out but drugged?

"Miranda!" John stared into the darkness. The young woman who had brought him the tea had been called Miranda. The tea; she must have put something in the tea! But did that mean that Carl was behind all of this? Had he been wrong to trust him? Had Sherlock been wrong to trust him?

John pushed the phone back into his pocket and started to rub his hands together. Slowly, he started to function properly, his mind able to focus on the task at hand, his panic pushed to the back of his consciousness.

He was a soldier, for Christ's sake, and he would not be silly and die of hypothermia when he was uninjured and could think clearly. With a sigh, he shed his jacked and stripped out of his trousers, jumper and shirt. Since there was nothing on which he could hang up his clothes in the hopes to dry them, he spread them out on top of each other, knowing in his heart that it would not really help to dry them. With a little difficulty, he also took off his socks but put his shoes back on. He put the socks on top of his jacket, knowing that they had a chance to dry off at least a bit on top of the leather. Then he started to walk. He counted the steps and memorised the measurement of the room. Twenty by fifteen feet.

The smell still spoke of a location either close to water, close to wet earth or below ground. For a moment he had to laugh, and the echo was eerie. How had he survived Afghanistan, having gone through kidnapping training when he was now constantly being kidnapped and never got out of it on his own accord?

At least he could be sure now that Moriarty was involved, he realised with a sinking feeling. But somehow it didn't make sense. Moriarty couldn't have known that John would go and see Carl, he couldn't have known that John would choose to go home instead of following DI Dimmock to the Strand to face Sherlock.

What if Carl worked for Moriarty? What if the whole case with the money, that stupid _stupid_ money had just been a trick to draw Sherlock's attention to the prodigy? Had Carl known the entire time? Had he not resisted Sherlock because it had all been part of the plan? And why was he now separated from the rest of the world in a wing of New Scotland Yard with his own coffee machine and assistant or whatever she had been? Why had Dimmock not talked about the reason why he was there and what exactly he did for them?

And why hadn't John realised any of this sooner? Why had he drunk the tea and chosen to take a cab? He cursed himself. He deserved every single time that Sherlock had called him an idiot. He was a complete idiot, who played into the hands of the one man who had made it his hobby to hurt others.

John walked back and forth, stopping whenever he felt the cold reflecting off the walls when he came close. Then an idea struck him. Maybe his battery was low because it was so very cold? If he could warm it up he might be able to make another call!

He pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket from the ground and started to rub it between his hands. He needed to talk to Sherlock. He needed to hear his voice, if only not to feel so cold.

His anticipation grew and when he couldn't wait anymore, he switched on his phone and speed dialled Sherlock's number. The little sign for the battery showed one bar. That was a good sign. He suddenly felt confident that everything would be alright.

The confidence faded when Sherlock didn't answer the phone. The voice mail announcement made his heart beat faster, but hearing his nonchalant message meant that he was unable to talk to him. What if he was also kidnapped, in a similar place, his phone dead? What if ...?

"Sherlock, please, answer the phone. I'm somewhere ... I don't know. Please find me. I'm okay, I'm cold, but okay. I'm in a completely dark cold room, possibly a little warmer than it is outside but not much, no windows or doors, concrete, fifteen by twenty feet, I can smell earth and water. Possibly underground. Can't be too far down since I have signal. I don't know. I was drugged I think. It might have been Carl, the girl at NSY was called Miranda. My battery is low. But call back, I need to hear your voice and I need to know that you are okay." He inhaled deeply and then, sensing the light on his phone growing dim again. "I'm sorry, you were right. I should have listened to you. I'm sorry I went to talk to Carl. I love you. I trust you. I'm an idiot."

With that he ended the call and kept on pacing the room, waiting for something to happen. The longer the waited, the more he felt as if he was caught up in an Edgar Allan Poe story. The Pit and the Pendulum; only that it wasn't the Spanish inquisition that wanted to kill him, and there was no bottomless pit in the ground that threatened to swallow him up. And there were no rats. Thank god for small favours.


	11. Chapter Eleven

The floor. What if there was a door on the ground, or maybe above him? John had checked the walls, but he had not tried to find any irregularities on the floor. There must have been an entrance, and he would find it.

John kept his phone in his hand, warming it, hoping to prolong the battery power. He was still freezing, but his feet weren't so cold anymore. As long as he moved, he would be fine. His brain told him that he should use the remaining power of his phone to search for a door on the ground or above him, but his heart told him to wait; to wait for Sherlock to call him back.

Moving all of his clothes to one corner of the room, he started to run his hand over the moist concrete of the floor. It took him a long time and he was freezing and sore from his crouching position, but at least he felt like he was doing something useful. And he needed to use any chance he had to get out of this.

The floor was perfectly smooth, well, as smooth as concrete could be. When he had reached the opposite corner of the room, his fingers numb from the cold, John felt the panic return. What if there was no exit? What if the walls had been closed around him, leaving him with no chance of escape? No, that couldn't be it. He had had no trouble with his phone, so the concrete was either very thin or the room wasn't shut off above him.

He put the fingers of his left hand into his mouth to warm them up and he tasted blood. Slowly, he felt the numbness give way to pain and he winced. This was not how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to be home, and his fingers weren't supposed to be bleeding from tracing the concrete floor, but they were supposed to tingle from tracing Sherlock's skin.

John closed his eyes against the darkness. He started to feel miserable, and he knew that it was dangerous. If he lost hope, he would grow cold much faster, he would stop moving and eventually he would just give up. And giving up was not something he did.

So he decided to do the only thing that was sensible to do. He switched on the phone and pointed it upwards. With a sinking heart he saw the light disperse into darkness. The ceiling must be higher than the light could reach. And even as he walked along the walls, checking for any doors or windows above his head, he didn't find anything.

If this was a dream, he hoped that he would wake up soon. But he had never had a dream like this and it felt too real, the pain felt too real.

It was a test. It must have been a test. Moriarty had put him here to test his patience, to see if he could break him.

Suddenly it all made sense. He was only alive because Moriarty wanted to play with him. Sherlock did not know where he was, and as long as Sherlock hadn't found him, John was a pet. A new idea struck. What if he wasn't quite as alone as he thought? He hadn't heard any noises, but he could at least try to call for help. So he did.

He called for help, for anybody to answer him. Then, feeling frustration grab hold of him, he started cursing, cursing Moriarty and his bloody awful concept of fun. He cursed until he felt his voice give, at which point he decided to stare at the invisible ceiling, just in case there was a camera that could record it. Thinking about it, it was very likely that a camera might record his every move, and he could positively see Moriarty sitting somewhere in a room, laughing his hysterical laughter at the way John crawled over the ground to find an escape. Just to be safe he flipped the ceiling off.

Two seconds later he started laughing at himself. He sounded hoarse and almost mad, and sounlike himself, and yet he did not care anymore. The darkness was getting to him. He never ever flipped anyone off. It was silly and immature and generally meant that you were out of arguments. Well, at least he had always thought that.

He needed to stop being silly and concentrate. He touched his skin and felt how cold he was. He was almost dry, but he needed to move to keep warm. Crossing his arms, he pushed his sore hands under his arm pits, feeling the pain more prominently than he had before.

Slowly, he could feel exhaustion settling in. He had been pacing the room for what felt like hours. His feet were warm, but the rest of his body was clearly not. The socks on his jacket were still damp, but he wasn't sure whether it would make a difference anymore. His body temperature was dropping, he could feel it. It wasn't so bad yet, but he knew that a few more hours in this place would leave him exhausted and if he stopped moving ...

"Jesus." He tried to calm himself down again. Allowing his thoughts to go there was the worst thing he could do. It pained him, but he imagined himself back in Afghanistan. If he had been captured, this might have been pretty close to a prison, underground, or a cave. The conditions could have been the same. He would be blindfolded, naked, starving, probably bleeding and cold. He had heard enough stories to know that in the end everyone reached their limit. The threat of torture could be more effective than actual physical pain. It shouldn't have, but it worked. He calmed down.

Putting his mind into a different time and place, John managed to not think about what might happen to him now, and that made it safe. His paces were slowing, and he used just enough energy to keep moving, but not too much to exhaust himself. The phone was pressed against his skin under his armpit, together with his bleeding hand. The pain seemed to give his situation another dimension and slowly he managed to get rid of the anger and fear he had felt before. If anything would happen, he would be prepared, and if nothing happened, well, he would not let himself go mad.

When the light was switched on, a sharp pain cut through his eyes and his legs gave in. He felt an even sharper pain in his knees as they hit the ground. The light was unnaturally bright, and John knew that it was supposed to keep him from seeing anything. He pressed one hand over his eyes and blinked rapidly, groaning in pain.

He could hear the switch before the light went out, and blue shades danced across his eyes for a long time. His head swam and he felt like he was going to be sick. Letting himself fall sideways he finally took his weight of his burning knees. Whatever this had been, it was closer to being held prisoner of war in Afghanistan than he would have liked to admit. For a while he just lay there, feeling the icy cold seep through him, holding him down like dead hands in a horror film. He knew he needed to move, but he was exhausted now, and the cold wasn't really that bad. He could get used to it.

The ring of his phone jerked him out of his almost melancholic state. He sat up, hastily, grabbing his phone that had slid to the ground.

"Hello?" His voice did not sound like him.

"John!" It's Sherlock, John thought, his heart starting to pound and he could feel relief wash through him.

"John, what happened? Are you okay? Where are you? No, no, concentrate." John had to smile at Sherlock's familiar way of talking to himself.

"I know where you are. At least I think I know where you are. Five acts, John, five. You are the fifth. He's going to make you fall. Don't let him." He sounded desperate, as if he knew that he couldn't help him.

"Sherlock, where are you?"

"Lestrade's office. The time, the pattern was right, only I didn't see. The blog, your blog, the numbers, it all makes sense now."

"Sherlock, I talked to Carl and the girl, Miranda, she brought me tea, I think it must have been ..." he suddenly couldn't talk anymore. It was as if his tongue was suddenly too heavy. The phone slipped from his hands and he could only watch it fall. Then he fell back, as if in slow motion and the last thing he heard was Sherlock saying his name over and over again.

It took a while for him to realise that his body was paralysed while he was still awake. Every now and then a jolt went through his body, as if electricity was running though him. His phone was dead and this time he was sure that it would not work again, no matter how much he tried to warm it up. And right now the real priority was his own body heat. But then again, he did not really feel very cold at all. No, he didn't feel anything. Light pressure from below, but the pain in his fingers and his knees had simply disappeared.

Well, he thought, suddenly very calm, at least he had heard Sherlock's voice one last time.

When he opened his eyes again, he could feel his body with intensified clarity. He ached all over and his head felt as if it was going to split. The darkness was still complete, and so was the silence. Nothing had changed, really. He still had his shoes and shorts on, most of his body attached painfully to the icy wet floor. John knew that he had to move, that he had to get up and get as warm as possible, but when he tried to sit up he felt the world spin, so he closed his eyes again and tried to focus on his breathing.

Sherlock had said he knew where he was. How could he know? John was relieved that his brain still seemed to work, despite the pain that seemed to be the most prominent of his feelings. The cold didn't seem so bad, but he knew that it was very dangerous.

"Get up!" he told himself. "Get up, slowly. No sudden moves." His voice helped him to focus and he managed to push himself up on his elbows. "Good, that's good. Now sit." He spoke through clenched teeth, trying to motivate his body to listen. His arms were shaking and the pain in his fingers was back when he pushed himself up into a sitting position. With a grunt he pulled his legs to his body, wrapping his arms around them, pressing his thighs against his torso. He rested his face on his knees and started to breathe warm air against his skin. "It's going to be okay."

For a while he stayed like this, waiting for his body to warm up again. He could feel blood dry on his knees, and he knew that he must have looked bloody awful. Sherlock would have a heart attack if he saw him like this. John had to smile. No matter what they had done to him, he would get out of here. Sherlock knew where he was, he had solved the puzzle, and he would come and get him. A shudder ran through his body and John wasn't quite sure whether it was the cold or whether it was something else. He must have been drugged, it was obvious now. His pulse was too fast now and the weird paralysis must have been caused by the same drug that made him fall asleep and knocked him out clean so he could be transported to this godforsaken place.

John knew that he would have to stand up so he could start moving again, but he also knew that his strength would probably fail him if he stood up now. Instead, he carefully crawled over to where he had left his clothes. It was astonishing that despite the panic and paralysis, he still remembered quite clearly where he was in the pitch black room, and he found his clothes as he had left them. When his hands felt for his socks, he could feel that they had indeed dried and for the first time he wondered for how long he had already been locked up in the room. It must have been more than a few hours, and he was still feeling relatively okay. The thought gave him hope. He came to sit on his jacket, groaning with relief when he realised how much warmer and softer it was than the cold ground. With difficulty he managed to take his shoes off and put his socks back on, rubbing his feet for a while to warm them up and then slipped on his shoes again. It felt so good he wanted to cry.

Feeling for his shirt, he found that it had almost dried as well, so he pulled it over his aching shoulders but failed buttoning it up as his fingers hurt too much. "Moriarty, you bastard!" John growled into the darkness. Concentrating on the enemy did help. "You think you can get away with this, don't you?" He rubbed his legs to get them warm. "You're probably sitting somewhere, laughing yourself to sleep over me sitting here trouser-less and freezing. But I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of freaking out in here. I don't care for your stupid little games. Yes, stupid, you hear me? How can you think that this is what life is all about for you? I pity you. I'm sure you don't even know what it means to be happy." He bit his lip to stop himself from rambling. If he started talking about Sherlock, it wouldn't end well. If Moriarty did indeed listen in on him, he would be offended by John calling him stupid, but he would love to destroy any kind of happiness he had, especially since a large part of his happiness was depending on Sherlock's well-being.

"You are not getting away with this," he whispered again. Then he started rocking, his legs pulled against his chest again, his arms trying to keep his legs warm, his shoulders pulled up so he could keep as much body heat as possible. God, what would he give for a bit of Sherlock's body heat now. Just a hand on the small of his back. Just a kiss pressed into his hair. Anything that would lend him some heat he so desperately needed.

When the next bout of paralysis set in he was aware enough to press himself into the nearest corner so that he wouldn't lie flat on the ground again. His body remained curled up and he didn't lose as much heat as he might have otherwise. Even as he felt his physical control disperse into nothing, he felt strangely proud that he managed to outwit the drug that overrode his system.

He started to count and only finished when he could feel his hands again. It had lasted about five minutes, and if he hadn't counted to make sure, it would have felt like five hours. The time is out of joint, John thought. Sherlock had known so much more than he had realised. He just wished he could have been more helpful. God, if he would start having nightmares about all of this now, Sherlock would go mental. But maybe that was why he was here. Maybe Moriarty did not want to kill him, but make sure that he became impossible to live with. Whatever the reason, John knew that it would make Sherlock feel only more protective of him than he already did.

 _You are the fifth. He's going to make you fall._ The words suddenly pierced his consciousness. How had Sherlock known? Had he talked to someone? Had he been in contact with Moriarty?

The man on Strand must have been the fourth, but why had he died in the early afternoon and not at seven like the others? Maybe Sherlock had been right when he had considered the first victim's watch to be of importance. Maybe it was important that he died at eight while the man at Charlotte Street had died at seven? The BBC man had died at seven in the morning and the man at the Strand had died at two. The numbers, Sherlock had said that the numbers on his blog were the key. He had spent an hour looking at them, but now he couldn't for the life of him remember them.

Maybe Sherlock had gotten hold of the book. He had wanted the book, John now realised. When they had stopped at the second-hand bookshop, Sherlock had been looking for The Temptes. If the numbers were a code within the text, he would have figured it out quickly. God, how he wished he could talk to Sherlock, listen to him come to a conclusion. It was only a matter of time until Sherlock would come and get him. Yes, he would be home before long and then he would get them both micro chipped so Mycroft would always know where they were.

This time he was prepared for the light, and as soon as he heard the switch, he hid his face between his knees, shielding his eyes from the brightness. For a few seconds he did not move, but then he opened his eyes and let them wander over the ground. It was perfectly smooth, just as he had thought. When he looked at his knees and hands he shuddered. He looked a bit like he used to look after particularly brutal rugby matches. Slowly, his eyes got used to the light, and he looked up, finding that the walls were just as smooth as the floor. When John looked even higher, using his hands to shield himself from the light, he saw small rusty spikes on the opposite wall. They started about two and a half metres above the ground, and if he jumped, he should be able to reach them and pull himself up and climb up there. For the first time he felt that he might manage to escape from this place on his own.

The light went out again and he inhaled deeply, trying to gather strength. He could do it, he was sure. He would get out of here.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stella asked for an update...here it is :D

John had been prepared for the light, he had been prepared for the paralysis, but he had not been prepared for the ice-water crashing down on him.

For a few seconds he couldn't move, too shocked to even think. This was too close to torture to be called anything else. He started shivering violently, and he could hear his teeth clatter and the little body heat that he had managed to keep so far seemed to be sucked out of him. John tried to move his hands, willed his body to do anything other than sit quite literally frozen to the spot. Then he relaxed his jaw, managing to keep his teeth from painfully grinding against each other. A pained cry escaped his lips, and the sound snapped his body back into awareness.

John jumped up and started pacing, ignoring the complete and all consuming pain that ripped through his body. Pain ... pain could be ignored, pain could be drowned out by adrenaline, he could get used to pain.

Breathing heavily, he started to rub his hands together. He needed to get out of here, and he needed to do it now. Another water attack would probably make his heart stop. His shirt was soaked and so were his shoes and he began to wonder whether it had been the shock of ice water that had woken him up when he found himself lying wet and cold on the ground.

Knowing that it was anything but a good idea, he started to put on his newly soaked clothes. If he was going to climb out of here, he wanted to be covered. He could be anywhere, and if he crawled out of the sewage system wearing nothing but a shirt and shorts, people would probably freak out. On top of that he might be too far away from shelter and he did not want to risk being out there in the snow without clothes. The laugh that escaped his lips sounded incredibly exhausted, but he decided not to think about it. He should be glad that he hadn't suffered a relapse of his flu yet, and if he was going to catch pneumonia, he wanted to be in a hospital and not down here.

He was absolutely miserably cold with his clothes back on, but he felt the need to take everything with him. His fingers were numb again and he blew on them to warm them up. He imagined sneaking his icy hands under Sherlock's shirt, pressing them against his back, making him jump. God, what would he give for a little body contact now. He could feel his fingers tingle.

"Alright then, here we go." He walked into the corner nearest to the place where he had seen the metal spikes and took two big steps and jumped. The metal was painful against his hands and he could feel his skin break on the palm of his right hand. Well, at least he now knew that he had remembered correctly and that he had also reached the perfect height to grab hold of the metal. Just as he moved back into the corner he could feel his body sag again. A second before control left him completely, he managed to push his arms forward so that he didn't fall face first onto the cement.

Five minutes. It latest exactly five minutes again, and John wondered what drug in the world managed to time its own effect. Something must have triggered it, he was sure about that. The minutes he spent on the ground robbed him of his strength again, but the prospect of finally being able to leave made him yet again ignore the pain as he pushed himself up to stand against the wall, breathing heavily. "Moriarty, you are not going to succeed!" Resuming to rub his hands, feeling warm blood slowly seep out of the cut, he bit his tongue. He would not feel sorry for himself; that could wait. No, he would rather cut off his legs than stay here and die without trying.

Inhaling deeply, he took two steps and jumped. He cried out in pain as his hands hit the metal spike and he held on, trying to use the rough wall to get some grip under the soles of his shoes. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and blindly reached for the next one. He found it and wrapped his hand around the icy metal. He already felt his strength leaving him, but he would not give up. His weight was mostly hanging on his left shoulder at this moment and he wasn't quite sure if the pain he felt was real or mixed with the memory of being hit. Inhaling sharply and then holding his breath, he pulled himself up again and found the next spike. One more and he would be able to pull up his feet and finally stand. That hope gave him the needed energy to pull again, and finally, finally he could place his feet on the lowest spike. His strength almost gave out and he desperately clung to the metal.

He knew that every second he spent waiting would mean for him to get colder and eventually he would not be able to hold on any longer, so he started to move. As he climbed up, a thought made his head spin and despite the cold he could feel his hands sweat. _He's going to make you fall_. What if he climbed up and then fell into paralysis again? No, that was not going to happen. The time slots between the last instances had been too long for it to happen so quickly after the last one. But then again, why had the light been on just long enough for his eyes to get used to it so he could see the makeshift ladder? Had all of this been the plan from the very beginning? Was this how he was going to die? Fall into the darkness below him when he reached thirty feet?

John tried to calculate how high up he already was, but he couldn't be sure. If he lost control over his body now, there was no way he could hold on. He would fall inevitably.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice almost made him let go and he gasped and pulled himself against the metal, breathing heavily.

"John, are you down there?"

Sherlock wasn't very far away, judging by his voice.

"I'm here," John croaked, and he cursed himself for spending so much time yelling at Moriarty, killing his vocal chords, but Sherlock had heard him.

"Oh, thank God." John had never heard him sound so relieved. "Stay where you are, don't move."

"I can't."

"Why? What are you doing?" The beam of a torch cut through the darkness, and John realised that Sherlock was only ten feet above him, so close and yet so far away. "Don't move, I'm coming down!"

"No." John's felt cramps in both hands and he knew he had to move. "Sherlock, wait. I'm coming up."

"Don't move!" It was an order and it made John freeze. "If you move, you fall, don't you understand?"

John did understand, but Sherlock was so close; escape was so close. Automatically, he started moving up, towards the light, towards warmth. The light beam started dancing and he knew that Sherlock was climbing down, the torch between his teeth. It gave him the needed strength and he climbed up higher. "John, your hands! Be careful so I won't step on them."

He moved them closer to the wall, but still he kept climbing. And then it happened. It was just as immediate as the three previous times. His body just gave up control. He could feel his hands lose contact and his knees give in, sending him downwards. For a second he felt completely weightless, but then he noticed a stop. It was a curious feeling, as he didn't feel any pain and not even the harsh pull at his clothes as his fall was stopped in mid air. All he knew was that he had stopped. And so he counted again.

When he had reached the fifth minute, he started to feel the pain again. For a second John thought that it would have probably been the nicest way to die, not feeling the pain when his body fell apart. Then his hands flew up, desperately looking for the metal spikes to hold himself up, panic ripping through him. But there was no metal, only the fabric of Sherlock's coat.

"John." Sherlock sounded exhausted. "John, can you move? Please hold on."

So he tried again, his hands finally finding the metal bars and he held himself up again. Sherlock was panting. "Up!" he ordered, and John started to climb towards the dim light that shone through a door above their heads. Sherlock moved around to John's side and climbed up after him, making sure he would be able to hold him again in case his body gave out.

When John finally reached the door and pulled himself through it, he just lay there, trying to steady his breathing. A second later Sherlock was above him, the light of the torch dancing across his face. "John, stay awake. Stay with me."

The last thing he heard before darkness took him were sirens in the distance and a very worried Lestrade shouting both of their names.

The pain was still there when he woke up, but it wasn't as all consuming as it had been before. His eyes hurt when he opened them. Too much light. John groaned and tried to shield his eyes, noticed that his right hand was wrapped in thick bandages.

"God." He closed his eyes again and tried to remember how he had gotten here. The room, that awfully cold room and the water and the paralysis. It was warm now, he realised, and when he noticed the heating blanket around him his brain started to function properly again.

Lifting his head from the pillow, he looked down on himself. The blanket covered him up to his chest leaving his arms free. He saw the plastic surround him and for a second he felt sick, thinking he was trapped again. But that was silly, really, he told himself. He was being treated for hypothermia and the tent was there to grant him heat apart from the blanket.

John inhaled deeply and lifted his right hand again, remembering that he had cut himself on the metal. His left hand looked battered and it was bruised, but the wounds weren't so bad. He had scratches on both forearms and bruises seemed randomly splattered over his body like paint.

Careful not to increase the pain, he slowly lifted the blanket. He wore a hospital gown and couldn't help but feel silly for it. John had never liked them, no matter how practical they were. His knees were both plastered up and he winced as he remembered falling on them. He could only imagine the bruises that would form there. His feet seemed okay and he could move his toes and when he tried, he also could bend his knees, although the cuts started to hurt. But overall, he’d been lucky.

The pillow was soft and so he let his head fall back again and for a few minutes he just lay there, enjoying the heat and the fact that his stupidity had not killed him.

Sherlock. God, he needed to see him. He needed to apologise.

John chuckled when he used his left thumb, the only finger that was not hurt, to press the little red button to call a nurse. For a few moments he wondered whether they had heard him, but eventually a door opened and he could see a person in white approaching the plastic curtain. And then another, much taller and darker shape pushed its way past the first one and ripped the curtain to the side.

"You're awake." Sherlock looked down on him, his emotions all over the place. He wanted to touch John, but he drew his hands back before he reached him, aware that he would probably hurt him if he did. When the nurse had caught up with him, his expression changed to a neutral one, but his eyes were bright as stars.

"How do you feel?" the nurse asked, ignoring Sherlock. John wondered for how long Sherlock had annoyed her, asking when he could see him, and the answer had most probably been: when he's awake.

"Like shit," John answered, going for the truth, "but alive."

A twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth suddenly made him very glad that he was. "How bad is it?" John asked, wanting to know when he could go home.

"Well, Doctor," the nurse smiled "depending on how you feel, I'd say you are bruised and battered, but apart from the cuts on your knees and your hand, you seem to be okay. A night in this to warm you up and a few days in bed at home should have you back to feeling ... well ... less shitty."

"Good. That's good." He felt himself relax. Warmth was good. "Can he stay?" he asked, nodding into Sherlock's direction. "Please?" he added, just for good measure.

"If he must. But you have quite a few fans in the police force who want your autograph, just to warn you."

John chuckled. "Could you try and keep them away for a bit longer? I'm not ready for that."

"Of course."

"Thank you, nurse ..." he smiled apologetically.

"Johnston. You're welcome Doctor Watson."

She checked his temperature and pulse, scribbled notes on the pad at the foot end of the bed and brought him a glass of water. "You're been drugged as you probably already suspected, and we're not sure what it is, so you better call for me in case you need to use the bathroom. You should be able to walk, but in any case ..."

"Actually, the bathroom would be lovely," John realised and grinned sheepishly, and a grin finally broke through Sherlock's mask. "And I'd like to try to walk while you're here, the both of you I mean, just in case."

"Alright then." Nurse Johnston gently pushed Sherlock out of the way, who let it happen, and John wondered whether the nurse actually liked Sherlock. Maybe he had for once not verbally reduced everyone to lesser beings but had actually behaved. John couldn't keep the smile off his face.

She carefully lifted the blanket and John could see Sherlock's eyes following its movement, trying to get a glimpse at the state of his body. "How long was I out?" he asked, if only to distract himself from Sherlock's eyes.

"Eight hours and thirty two minutes, minus the ones it took you to call the nurse," Sherlock piped up, making sure John knew he had spent all of that time waiting for him to wake up again.

The nurse helped John to sit up, and he felt how sore he was. His shoulders were stiff and aching. God, if it wasn't for his wounds he would have loved to take a hot shower, or maybe a bath? That sounded like bliss.

His knees hurt, but it was more the wounds and his sore muscles than his bones and after a few steps he managed to straighten up. At the bathroom door, he turned around to announce that he could do it by himself and caught Sherlock as his head snapped back up from watching his middle. Only then did John realise that the hospital gown was open at the back and that he did not wear any underwear. And by the look of it, Sherlock clearly knew that he had been caught staring and John couldn't help but laugh. "God, I'm so glad to be alive."

In the bathroom John caught sight of his reflection, and again he was scared by it. His right cheek was bruised and he had a few scratches across his forehead. Those past days had definitely been too adventurous for him. Yes, he had always loved the rush, but going from hunter to prey had not been a very fun thing to do. Maybe he could get Mycroft to force a holiday on Sherlock?

When he came out of the bathroom he found Sherlock talking quietly to the nurse. It was clearly a discussion bordering on an argument, but Sherlock was incredibly restrained and polite. "Is everything alright?" John asked, sensing that he was the subject of the argument.

The nurse turned towards him. "He wants to take you home."

"He's well enough to go home," Sherlock argued, waving his hand in John's direction. "I can take care of him." The nurse looked doubtful and John could see Sherlock biting back an offensive remark.

"Well, I think we should keep him in the tent for another few hours, make sure he's warm enough, but the doctor will be the one who decides."

"But John is a doctor."

"He is a _patient_."

Sherlock huffed and walked over to the tent, gesturing John to go back to bed, and John obliged him.

"I'll talk to him, see what I can do." Nurse Johnston seemed rather willing to help, and John wondered whether she was one of those people who owed Sherlock a favour.

Sherlock pulled the blanket back over John, tucking him in like he would a child, and John had to smile. Sherlock being gentle with him made him want to cry, but that would be silly, really. Sherlock's fingers traced the rim of the blanket and then moved up to his shoulders. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to John's forehead, and when John pushed up his head a bit, he smiled and moved down, fist kissing his nose and then finally his lips. John was sure the whimper that left his lips was as undignified as it got, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. The kiss was gentle, as if he was afraid to hurt him, but it was enough for John; enough to know that he would never have to doubt his feelings for this man, and that he would never have to doubt Sherlock's feelings for him either.

Nurse Johnston cleared her throat, and Sherlock moved back, exhaling noisily. "I'll be back," he promised and followed the nurse outside. John closed his eyes and concentrated on the kiss. Everything seemed like a blur, and yet he felt contented, as if he knew that everything was going to be alright now, and that his wounds would heal and that he could forget about all of this. Maybe it was the medication, but it might just as well have been the fact that he was alive and that Sherlock was okay but he suddenly felt incredibly tired. With a smile he let himself drift off again.

The next time he woke up it was clearly in the middle of the night, but there was a light shining through the plastic curtain, as if to make sure that it wouldn't be entirely dark. Sherlock was sleeping in a chair next to the bed. Sherlock was sleeping? John grinned at his own surprise. Well, in any case, he couldn't be comfortable like this.

"Sherlock." John tried to be quiet, not knowing whether anyone else would be able to hear him if he spoke too loudly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock jerked awake, alarmed and looking guilty, as if he had not wanted to fall asleep but had not been able to help himself.

"John, are you okay?" He sounded breathless but incredibly tired.

"You were all I could think about. You and your wonderful body heat," John said, quietly. Sherlock smiled. "Is that an invitation?"

"Of course it is." John moved to make room and lifted the blanket. The look on Sherlock's face made him want to cry again. Can this please stop, he chided himself.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and proceeded to undress, and as much as John loved the idea of it, he was sure the staff of the hospital would be anything but amused to find both of them naked in the hospital bed. "Sherlock, don't," he said, regret clearly audible in his voice, but Sherlock didn't let that distract him. "You want body heat, you get body heat." Thankfully and yet disappointingly, he left his trousers on as he crawled into bed with John.

"Hold me?" John whispered and turned so Sherlock could spoon him, "and never let me go."

"At least not tonight," Sherlock promised with a smile. He kissed the nape of John's neck, just as he had imagined it in that cold room. He was close to drifting off to sleep again but he wanted to know what had happened.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He hummed against his shoulder blade and John shivered.

"Where did you find me?"

"Caliban Tower, in the empty lift shaft."

"Of course." John smiled and pushed himself a little closer to Sherlock. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock kissed him again, and John was acutely aware of his chest against his back where the gown gaped open. If Sherlock had not kept on his trousers, he didn't know how much he would have minded his injuries. But then he managed to distract himself from Sherlock's body and remembered that he was the one who should apologise.

"No, Sherlock. I am sorry. I didn't ..."

"Shhh." Sherlock nuzzled his neck, making John sigh. "We can talk tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Good." Sherlock inhaled deeply, and just when John thought he would be ready to go to sleep, Sherlock detached himself from him and loosened the hospital gown at his neck where it was held together by two strings, pushing it over John's shoulder and out of the way. Even in the half darkness, John was sure that Sherlock could see him blush when Sherlock's hand came to rest on his hip for a second only to push away the gown completely, tugging until only John's arms were still stuck in it and Sherlock had to press closer to reach far enough to pull it completely off of John. When he had accomplished undressing him, he unceremoniously dropped it over the edge of the bed and settled back, wrapping his arm around John, finally able to attach as much skin as possible to him.

"It would work better if I'd take my trousers off, but I have a feeling that we might not get much sleep then."

"You ... have a feeling?" John sounded rather distracted and he could feel Sherlock smile against his skin again.

"Go to sleep."

"Hmm."

Despite thinking that he never would be able to fall asleep lying completely naked in a hospital bed under a warming blanket with an even warmer body attached to him, he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, finally feeling completely safe.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

John knew it was late when he woke up. For a few moments he wondered why he felt uncomfortable, but within seconds he figured out a whole list of reasons. He needed to pee; he was thirsty like he had never been before; Sherlock was missing; and he wore his hospital gown again, and, surprisingly, also shorts. The thought that Sherlock had dressed him made him both uncomfortable and giddy. He remembered the glass of water next to his bed and drank all of it in one go. Then he pushed the blanket away and got out of bed, wearily moving towards the bathroom. Yearning for a shower, he splashed his face with his left hand and eventually went back to the bed and pressed the call button. He could have just as well walked out to find a nurse, but he still didn't want the general public to see him in the hospital gown, arse covered or not.

This time, the doctor came and it was the same doctor who had treated both of them after the library. John started to wonder whether Mycroft had anything to do with it.

"Welcome back," he said with a smile. "Do you feel alright?"

"I do, actually. I would just like to know when I can go home."

The doctor looked at him for a moment, evaluating John's general state and then he started to take the plaster off his knees. "It depends, really. You slept well, you respond well to the medication, and you haven't collapsed while you were here, at least as far as we can tell. You would need 24 hour supervision for at least a week. Considering the flu you had not two weeks ago, you should keep warm, drink lots of water, no alcohol," he dabbed John's knees with disinfectant, making John wince, "and you should stick to a healthy diet if possible, lots of vitamins. I'm a little worried about the last part, but I'm sure you can arrange that." John had to chuckle, picturing Sherlock actually cooking.

"But generally, you should be good to go this evening."

"That's great," John smiled. "Can't wait to be home."

"I trust you will be able to treat your cuts on your own?"

"Yes."

"Alright." He applied a new plaster and started to clean the other knee. "The police still want to talk to you, although Mr Holmes has already told them everything he knows."

"You can bring them in. No, wait. Lestrade, you can bring in Lestrade."

The doctor smiled, obviously familiar with the DI.

"I'll get him and have the nurse look at your hand, and then I'll get the paperwork ready."

"Thank you."

John waited a good ten minutes for Lestrade to come, and he looked incredibly guilty when he entered. "John, are you okay? They didn't let me talk to you."

"I'm fine. A little shaken, but fine."

"I can't believe they would do that to you. There is a video of you. We confiscated it. Sherlock has been driving everyone crazy, demanding we let him watch it."

"Don't let him." John knew that he didn't have to tell Lestrade, and that Lestrade must have seen bits of it to know exactly why he wouldn't let Sherlock watch.

"God, do you need anything?" Lestrade rubbed his eyes. Then he stood up straight. "This needs to stop," he suddenly said, sounding determined. "Whatever is going on, it needs to stop. If I have to send one more ambulance to pick you up half dead I will resign from my job and move to the Hebrides."

"It's not like I planned on being kidnapped."

"Jesus, John! When I got your message I thought you were joking. My assistant thought you were joking ... and then Sherlock barged in, raging on about incompetence and failure and only then did I realise that you were truly gone. I've never seen him this close to a nervous breakdown, and I have seen him as he was going through withdrawals."

"I'm sorry, Greg."

Lestrade laughed. "No, don't be. I'm glad you're alive. I just don't want to think about what would happen to him if he lost you."

That remark made John's heart sink. He only ever thought about not wanting to lose Sherlock, but he had never thought about that aspect, not really. All the vulnerability he saw in Sherlock when they were alone; it wasn't just that he let down his guard with him, it was as if he didn't have a choice anymore after opening up about his feelings to John. He was, with very few exceptions, Sherlock's only real friend.

"I had no idea what this would turn into when I called Sherlock to come out. I thought it was just something that would end there, something that he could solve to get his mind off things."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock's rough voice was making John shiver. "Don't apologise. Of course you had no idea ...," he didn't finish that sentence, but all three of them knew what he wanted to say.

Sherlock walked over to John, but he didn't touch him, if only to irritate Lestrade. "I want to see it."

John reached for Sherlock's arm with his left hand. "Don't."

"I need to know." He sounded stubborn and angry, but he was trying to hide it from John.

"I will tell you, but I don't want you to watch it." John tried to make Sherlock see that he would only hurt himself by watching it, although John wanted to see it, too. He wanted to know how pathetic he had looked in complete darkness, undressing and crouching across the floor. It had obviously left Lestrade shaken, and he knew that Sherlock would get incredibly mad if he saw it.

"John, whenever you're ready, come down to the Yard. There are a few things that need clarification." And, looking up to face Sherlock's stare he added, "alone."

"He's going nowhere alone!" Sherlock spat, and John wondered when Sherlock had taken hold of his arm while it had been the other way around just a second ago.

"Well, Sherlock, even you have to follow some rules. You can come in with him, but we need to speak to him alone."

John nodded, if only to stop Sherlock from saying something hurtful.

"Alright, I'll see you soon then." He smiled, and yet again avoided looking at Sherlock. "And if you get yourself kidnapped again I will put you in jail for life, just so I know you are safe."

Despite Sherlock's best effort to stare, he couldn't hide the small smile that simply took over. John grinned and pulled him closer.

"Afternoon." Lestrade left without looking back, clearly fearing bearing witness to a renewed display of affection between John and Sherlock.

"I brought you some clothes," Sherlock said, still holding John's arm, his thumb gently brushing John's skin.

"Did you dress me again this morning?" John decided that from now on he would speak his mind, no matter how uncomfortable it might be for either of them.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I liked the thought of it." Alright, Sherlock was definitely going along with the honesty approach.

John tugged at his arm and Sherlock let go, looking a little unsure of himself. "I think your clothes are ruined."

"I'm not surprised. It doesn't matter."

"I bought you ..."

"What? You didn't need to go and buy me anything, Sherlock."

"But your jumper ...," he was looking at his toes. Dear God, Sherlock being adorable was something that John would never get tired of witnessing. Sherlock walked over to the door and retrieved a bag from the hallway. "Here."

John took it and found that Sherlock had indeed bought the exact same beige-grey wool jumper that he had bought years and years ago and worn more for its warmth than any other purpose.

"You are incredible," John said, pulling out the rest of the clothes and reaching up to unfasten the gown. Of course he didn't manage with his fingers bandaged, and Sherlock stepped behind him to help. Once again, Sherlock pushed the gown over John's shoulders and it fell to the ground. He watched it for a second before he stepped between John's legs and wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back against him, resting his chin on John's shoulder.

It was obvious he wanted to say something, but he stayed quiet, breathing deeply, and John closed his eyes, enjoying the intimacy and heat of the moment. Eventually Sherlock let go of him again and moved so John could get dressed.

This time, John didn't mind Sherlock watching him putting on his clothes. John barely managed to close his jeans, but when it came to buttoning up his shirt, Sherlock had to step in once again. He feared that Sherlock might use his chance to tease him, but Sherlock moved quickly and barely touched him. "Thank you."

John pulled on the jumper and wondered how fast he would be shedding his clothes again once they were home. He needed to wash, but there was also still the promise he had made Sherlock, who had actually kept the promise he had made to John. Suddenly he couldn't imagine feeling cold ever again.

The nurse came to check on his hand. Sherlock was handed three bottles of different painkillers with a remark that they were for John only and not for any kind of recreational use or experiments. Surprisingly, Sherlock remained silent.

The next half hour was a blur. With difficulty, he signed his release form yet again, and was ushered into a cab. For a moment he panicked, remembering where his last taxi ride had taken him, but Sherlock wrapped an arm around him protectively. John had to think back to the day when he had brought Sherlock home in the cab and he had shaken like a leaf. God, he had been so shy about touching Sherlock then.

The steps upstairs were almost impossible, as John had to bend his knees and he could feel the cuts break open again as he finally gave up being careful. Sod it, he wasn't a child anymore and scraped knees wouldn't force him into immobility.

"Couch," Sherlock ordered as he disappeared into the kitchen.

John carefully sat down, but he winced when he leaned back, finding that his shoulders were still incredibly tense. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He appeared from the kitchen, carrying two mugs of tea.

"Would you mind giving me a backrub? I mean, my shoulders ...," he rolled them and grimaced in pain to illustrate the necessity of his request. Sherlock just smiled and put the cups down. "Certainly."

John smiled at the eagerness in his voice and started to pull at his jumper.

"Don't," Sherlock ordered, sitting down behind him. "Let me."

So John dropped his hands, closed his eyes and waited, but Sherlock didn't move, at least not right away. When John turned around to look at him, he found Sherlock staring at him with something like dread in his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John asked, breathless, "what is it?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply and tried to rid his face of all emotion, not quite succeeding. "I just ..."

John felt that he was trying very hard to stay rational, and he started to see what Lestrade had meant when he had told him that Sherlock wouldn't know what to do without him.

"I just thought I would come home and find you here, waiting for me. I should have known that you were part of the plan. I should have ..."

"You couldn't have known, Sherlock!"

"No, I could have, I should have."

"Sherlock," John was adamant at making him feel better about all of this. "I didn't listen to you, and I am deeply sorry. I should have trusted you. It's my fault that I got kidnapped and it's my fault that I am in the state I am in now. It is not yours."

"But it is. Ultimately, everything that happens to you is."

John sighed and turned around to face him properly. "Don't be ridiculous. I was stupid while I should have known better. I chose to put myself in danger, and I am so sorry about that. I love you, I really do, and I shouldn't have gone anywhere without telling you."

"I ..."

"Sherlock, please!" John turned around and away from him, hoping that Sherlock would let it go.

With a shuddering sigh, Sherlock pulled at John's jumper, but only pushed it up a bit before he suddenly moved and pressed himself against him, wrapping his arms around him yet again. His lips moved wordlessly against his neck, and John could feel him shake lightly. After a few moments, he moved back again, and this time he really took off John's jumper. Then he started kissing the nape of John's neck, and John wondered whether his neck was Sherlock's equivalent to John's favourite spot on Sherlock's chest. In any case, he prayed that he wouldn't stop.

For a moment Sherlock just seemed content to kiss him there, but when his tongue darted out to lick a line from the nape of his neck over to his shoulder, John gasped and brought up his hand to stop him. It must have been the bandages that actually stopped him, as John was fairly sure that if it had been his hand, he would just have proceeded in kissing his fingers.

"Shirt?" he asked, sounding much more excited than he should have. Sherlock's answer was a sigh which told John that Sherlock was smiling. Sherlock only opened the three buttons on top and then just pulled the shirt over John's head, throwing it further away than was strictly necessary.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked as goose bumps spread over John's skin.

"No, it's you."

He could hear Sherlock's breath hitch and decided that going with the truth might actually have unforeseen advantages.

Carefully, Sherlock pressed his hands against John's shoulder blades. "Tell me if it hurts."

"Don't worry about that. Just touch me, please." Right. This was not exactly what he had planned on saying, and once again he could feel a blush creep into his face.

"Okay." It might have been his imagination, but Sherlock sounded a bit breathless. And then he started to massage him.

John thought that nothing in his life had ever felt this good. Sherlock's thumbs were digging into his tense muscles, and he was sure he could come just from being touched like this. When Sherlock started to move his hands in wider circles, applying pressure that drew the air out of John's lungs, he wasn't sure he would survive this.

He tried to steady his breathing, but eventually it became too bothersome to keep the noises from escaping and it really didn't take long until he was moaning loudly. The pain was still there, his knees bent painfully and his fingers burning, but he would gladly suffer pain if the reward was Sherlock's hands on his back.

And Sherlock was surprisingly skilled at what he was doing. John was positive that he had never touched another person like this before, but apparently he had learned from the short excursion into massages that John had given him two days ago. Or, which was probably more likely; he had done his research on human anatomy and knew exactly what he was doing. His thumbs found the exact right spots, smoothing the knots out, leaving John boneless.

"John?" Sherlock asked after a while. John heard him, but it took him several seconds to emerge from the dreamlike state that the massage had put him into.

"Yes?"

"Do you want to take a bath? Hot water might actually help and ..."

John suddenly sat up straight and Sherlock stilled his movement as if unsure whether to proceed or not. _Will you join me?_ John felt the words on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite say them. "I don't know if it's a good idea, with my knees and my hands and ..."

He hated himself for denying Sherlock like this, but he couldn't really imagine himself soaking his wounds in hot water, no matter how tempting it sounded.

"I could ... help you." Sherlock said quietly, sounding nervous again. John knew that he had to be honest now. If he tried to talk his way out of a perfectly logical suggestion now, he would not only hurt Sherlock and sound completely prudish at the same time, but he would break the promise that he had given him.

"And a hot bath does sound fantastic," he said, turning around to face Sherlock. He had not expected him to look so turned on, but then he remembered the noises that he had made as Sherlock massaged him and if Sherlock was just as remotely turned on by the noises he made as John was by the noises Sherlock had made, well, then it explained the state he was in. _Please, please don't run and hide in your room like I did!_

"Okay." Sherlock smiled and was up in a flash, rushing upstairs and running the bath. John exhaled loudly, trying to regain some control over his body. The hands on his back had been incredible; he couldn't quite allow himself to imagine them massaging other body parts.

Sherlock returned with a handful of plastic bags and duct tape. "What are these for?" John asked, already guessing what Sherlock wanted to do with them. He earned a 'John, don't be silly'-look and had to grin.

"Undress," Sherlock ordered, and John felt his heart take up speed. Was this going to be the first time Sherlock saw him completely naked? Well, he had imagined it many times over the past few days, but never had it been in context of him looking like he had been run over by a lorry, unable to use his hands and with knees that were now plastered up so thoroughly that for once they would not give in, no matter how turned on he was.

"No," he answered and watched as Sherlock's eyes grew dark. For a few seconds they stared at each other, and then Sherlock stepped closer and tugged his fingers under John's belt. The gasp should have been embarrassing, but he figured that now was not the time to feel embarrassed. Sherlock opened John's belt and pulled it out of its loops, making John shudder in anticipation.

"May I?" Sherlock asked when his fingers started to loosen the button on his jeans.

John was touched by the question and again remembered that he had always thought to be the experienced one of the both of them and now it seemed as if Sherlock knew exactly where he wanted to go, clearly knowing he needed John's consent to proceed.

He nodded, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. Green, they were definitely green right now.

John shuddered again and Sherlock inhaled sharply as he popped open the button. He kept looking at John's face as he slowly drew down the zipper over obviously tight pants. He didn't pull down John's jeans, but drew his fingers over the bulge, drawing a groan out of John which surprised them both. After the light touch, John found himself panting, and he was sure that if Sherlock decided to touch him now, his pants would be soiled before he was out of them. "Upstairs," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded wordlessly.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where the rating finally reaches the promised NC 17 :p

The light in the bathroom was bright, too bright, and for a second John forgot his arousal and tried to fight down the memory of the painfully bright neon light. He cleared his throat noisily, and forced himself to not let it affect him. He sat down on the rim of the bathtub, trying to toe off his socks, not quite succeeding. With a fluid move, which made John chuckle as he couldn't suppress the mental comparison to Hamlet, Sherlock knelt down and pulled off his socks. But instead of getting up again, he took John's right foot in his hand and gently started to massage it. John still felt dirty, and whoever had washed him at the hospital had only cleaned away the worst, so he felt a bit embarrassed at the close attention his feet got from Sherlock, but when he gently put his right foot down and picked up his left foot and pressed into his sole while gently massaging his ankle, he thought that it might actually be more important to cling to the bathtub in order not to fall backwards into it than to be thinking about dirty feet.

"Stand," Sherlock ordered once he had put down his foot, and John stood; a little wobbly, but the bandages definitely helped. With a single swift move, Sherlock pushed down John's jeans. "You can leave your shorts on if you feel more comfortable that way," he said, his voice clearly betraying his chivalrous offer.

John had to chuckle and decided to stop being so uncharacteristically shy and hooked his thumbs under his waistband. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his, as if he knew that it would be easier for John to undress completely when he wasn't looking. John knew, however, that Sherlock wanted nothing more than to look at him. It was as if Sherlock was denying himself the one thing he wanted the most at this point; to observe, to see, to memorise. It was proof of just how much he meant to Sherlock.

When he stepped out of his jeans and pants, John felt vulnerable, and yet happier than ever. After all this time, all this insecurity, they had now entered a stage in their relationship where honesty and trust came before everything else. Sherlock still looked at his face when he handed John the first plastic bag, so he could tape it around his knees, creating a water proof plaster. Even as John bent down to fix it around his leg, Sherlock kept his head up, as if waiting for John's explicit permission. After John had fixed up both of his knees, he grinned and looked down on himself, trying to ignore his erection that just didn't seem to want to go away again.

"Do my hands?" he asked Sherlock, whose cheeks were flushed now. John knew he was dying to look down, to finally see him naked with his consent, and he wondered whether he had taken his sweet time in the hospital to dress him after he had woken up.

Sherlock was quick and efficient, and it only took him seconds to create makeshift plastic gloves for John. "Into the bath," he ordered again, and John found that his tone of voice was definitely one of the things that kept his erection up.

"Not before you are naked," was the only retort he could think of.

But instead of shedding his clothes right away as John had hoped, Sherlock stepped closer and kissed him. It wasn't a mind-blowing and passionate kiss, but one that clearly said thank you.

When he moved away, he smiled. And then he showed John just how fast he could get naked. Feeling slightly guilty for it, John didn't have the self-restraint to keep his head above sea level. He wasn't really surprised to see Sherlock completely naked, and as hard as he himself was. Somehow he looked exactly like he had imagined him, which didn't mean that he wasn't completely and utterly blown away by looking at him. He cock was, as every other part of Sherlock, beautiful.

"In," Sherlock ordered again, now sounding positively breathless.

A little clumsily, but nevertheless quickly, John climbed into the bath. The heat of the water made him gasp, and his injuries stung at the immediate confrontation with the heat, but it was exactly what he had dreamed of in the cold dark room.

"Move," Sherlock said, and John found again that Sherlock's eloquence had somehow vanished into thin air.

"Make me," John answered, grinning up at Sherlock, who looked back at him as if he was the most precious thing he had ever seen.

Sherlock seemed unsure of how to oblige John in his request, but then he seemed to come to a decision and knelt down next to the bathtub, robbing John of any chance to see his erection. "You have several options," Sherlock announced. "I could wash you like this, which would be the only expedient solution if you decide not to move."

John looked at him, watching mist rise slowly from the hot water in which he sat between him and Sherlock. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear his heart beating rapidly in his chest and he could always blame the blush on the heat. "Or?"

"Or you could move and I could get in with you, which seems to be the preferable option on both sides." His lips twitched as he was trying to keep the smile off his face.

"Or?"

"John." Exasperated.

"Yes?"

"I know that you might not always be as stupid as you make yourself out to be, but trust me, the other options will not be in your interest."

"Alright, I might go with the second one then." John tried to keep his voice conversational, and almost succeeded.

"Good. Move it then."

John chuckled and pulled himself to the deeper end of the bathtub to create room for Sherlock to move in behind him. He felt himself shiver in anticipation, which was very strange indeed, considering how hot the water was.

With a swift move, Sherlock was in the bath, settling down behind John. His knees were drawn close to his body and it was definitely not the position he had been referring to when he had spoken of the preferable option for both of them. But then Sherlock took hold of John's waist and pulled him up high enough that he could push his legs through under him and pulled him flush against his body.

Both of them gasped at the contact, and John was sure that drowning in a bathtub from sheer loss of blood in his head and subsequent inability to breathe was indeed preferable to freezing in a dark room.

But then Sherlock's hands came around and he hugged him even closer and John felt like crying again, clearly sensing that Sherlock's reason for holding him like this was sheer possessiveness and the need to make sure that he was indeed right there with him.

He placed his plastic covered hands over Sherlock's, keeping them in place. Sherlock moved back a bit so that eventually they both lay in the tub, John pressed against him, hot water surrounding them.

Because they were both in the bath, the water was now almost up to the rim and John knew that if either of them moved too much, water would spill and quite possibly flood the bathroom.

"John?" Sherlock's thumbs started to rub the skin on his chest and he spoke against his ear, making him shiver yet again.

"Yes?"

"I know why you don't want me to see the video." He sounded heartbroken, but apparently he needed to speak about it. "I still want to see it. I have to know what happened to you, because we didn't find anyone, and maybe there is another clue in the video. The numbers seem to hint at the fact that you were the final act, but I can't be sure."

John sighed and moved his head so that Sherlock's lips were pressed against his cheek. "So you still don't know whether it was Moriarty?"

"No. I'm almost sure that it was him, or that he initiated the whole affair, but in the end the puzzle was too easy to solve. If it had been controlled by Moriarty, I'm sure he would have made it more difficult for me to find you. And I'm not sure if I could have found you in time." He inhaled sharply and tightened his embrace.

"But Sherlock, if you watch the video, you won't be able to stay objective. You might make decisions that you wouldn't otherwise, and you might miss vital clues because you will be ..."

"John, I haven't been objective since I have known you. But that is not the point. It's personal now. This is not just a crime that someone literally created to see if they could fool me. They wanted to take you away from me. I can't let them do that again. I will find them, whether Moriarty is behind this or not. They managed to get to you while you should have been safe, and if they did it once they could do it again and I don't want you to lose your trust in people because you are afraid that every taxi you take might kidnap you. I don't want you to become cynical, not the way I am. You trust people, John, you just go and talk to them and you don't care for all those faults that I always see. You always trust everyone until you are proven wrong. I need you to keep that trust, because I don't possess that, and I need you ... I need you to be that much better than me." He moved his head so he could press a gentle kiss against John's lips. "That is why I need to see that video."

John nodded, slightly shocked by Sherlock's explanation. "Okay."

"Now," Sherlock smiled, his voice must lighter now, and moved back again, "pass me the shampoo."

John did, and Sherlock took his sweet time wetting John's hair and applying shampoo and gently massaging his scalp. John closed his eyes and just let it happen. "This is so good," he murmured after a while, "could you maybe do this on a regular basis?"

Sherlock just chuckled. His hands moved down to the nape of John's neck and he found that John was still tense there and started to massage the spot, now and then running his hands down over his shoulders, unable to keep himself from touching as much skin as possible without being too obvious about it. John, of course, noticed, and couldn't help but smile. When Sherlock's fingers moved to his chest, his thumbs tracing his collar bone, John decided to make things easier for him and reached for the shower gel. An appreciative sound let John know that Sherlock had indeed been waiting for John to give in and allow him to let his hands wander.

"Head," he ordered, and John wondered if he would ever not be turned on by the tone of voice he used with him. Given they would probably soon be in a more serious environment and Sherlock would undoubtedly be impatient, ordering people around, it would make things a little hard for him.

The relieved laughter that suddenly broke out of him made John slip under water for a second, and Sherlock scrambled to pull him back up, spilling water onto the floor in the process. Yet John couldn't stop laughing, now coughing bathwater, trying to wipe his face with his plastic covered hands.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock sounded gobsmacked, which pushed John into another fit of laughter. It took a few minutes until he had calmed down. "Did I do anything?" Sherlock asked, clearly not quite able to follow John's train of thought.

"No," John said gently, "you didn't do anything. Well, you did, but it doesn't matter."

"Tell me!" Sherlock demanded, and John felt light headed.

"God, Sherlock. It's your voice. It's what it does to me. God, please touch me!" He stopped, clearly noticing how Sherlock tensed when he said it, but now he couldn't take it back. And he could also clearly feel Sherlock's erection pressing against his lower back and there was really only one way to go.

"Please?" he added, saving Sherlock the question of whether he was really sure about this.

Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds, drawing deep breaths as if to calm himself, and John leaned back into him, turning his head to press his cheek against Sherlock's chest. And then Sherlock's left hand moved down, while the other one hugged him close against his chest. He flattened his hand against John's lower abdomen, making him draw a sharp breath. "Please!" It was only a whisper now, but all the permission Sherlock needed. He moved lower and wrapped his hand around John, who bucked into his hand, trying to hold on to his sanity by clinging to the rim of the bathtub, but not quite succeeding.

When Sherlock started to move his hand, applying just the right amount of pressure, John was sure that he wouldn't last long. But Sherlock was slow, so maddeningly slow. Just as he was about to say something, Sherlock changed the pace and pattern of the strokes, spilling more water in the process. John arched into his touch, his arms flying up to come to rest against Sherlock's neck, who chuckled at the desperate clawing of plastic bagged fingers at his hair.

John wanted to see Sherlock's fingers, he really badly wanted to see how he moved, what he did, but he couldn't quite keep his eyes open. Pressing his face against Sherlock's chest, half under water, hearing the thunder of his heart and with a groan that he was sure should have escaped his own lips and not Sherlock's, he came.

For a few seconds he just tried to remember how to breathe. His head was spinning, partly from the startling heat, but mostly from the orgasm that had just ripped through him.

"Jesus," he gasped when he found his voice again. Then, with a sudden realisation he untangled himself from Sherlock's limbs and turned around as far as he could. Sherlock's face was flushed, his hair all over the place and he looked absolutely adorable. A small frown and teeth that worried his lower lip gave away his embarrassment and John couldn't help himself but turn around completely, not minding the sharp pain as his knees hit the bottom of the tub and the water that splashed noisily onto the ground when he flung himself into Sherlock's arms, kissing him until both of them almost drowned again.

Suddenly it seemed like the most natural thing to be naked and in Sherlock's arms. The fact that Sherlock had come while getting him off blew his mind, but he couldn't imagine himself feeling anything else than completely loved by the beautiful man who seemed to know exactly what he needed.

"Thank you," he whispered against Sherlock's lips.

"Can we go to bed?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse. "I want to look at you."

John was sure that he couldn't blush anymore than he already had, but the heat was now so intense that he could feel a headache approaching. Sherlock smiled and with a single well placed movement toed the plug out of the drain and leaned back, waiting for the water to sink around them. John decided to stop his thoughts from focusing on Sherlock's talent to use his toes to do practically anything and started to remove the plastic bag from his right hand.

Sherlock shook his head. "That can wait," he decided and gently nudged John until he moved off of him. It took John more than two attempts to get out of the tub, and once he came to stand on the flooded tiles he reached out to hold onto the wall. Sherlock had clearly done something to his sense of balance.

"John, you're beautiful," Sherlock said, looking at him properly for the first time. John couldn't remember Sherlock ever using that word and actually meaning it, but it was obvious that he did now.

"Come," John gestured for Sherlock to step out of the bathtub as well, and he pulled himself up and stood, dripping wet and beautiful, letting John look at him in turn. John finally trusted his legs and grabbed a towel, but suddenly Sherlock was there, right in front of him, taking the towel from his hands and draping it over his shoulders. His eyes were blazing, and John remembered that somehow, Sherlock still considered him to be his case. Seeing him naked and making him come were probably great advances in that field. John smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

And Sherlock kissed him; he kissed as if to say thank you, as if to say that he wouldn't let him out of his sight again, as if to say that he was the only one for him. All of those things Sherlock wouldn't know how to say were in that kiss, and John whimpered at the realisation.

Sherlock broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead against John's. There weren't any words, but John didn't need to hear him speak. It was a silent communication, an affirmation of everything they had said and thought before. Eventually Sherlock stepped back and fetched a towel for himself.

The way to John's room had never been this long, and Sherlock was buzzing with excitement before they had even stepped through the door. John sat down on the bed, holding up his hands as to tell Sherlock to take off the plastic bags. Now that he thought about it, it didn't get any less romantic, but somehow all of this hadn't mattered. His bandages would still be dry and only one of his knees had started bleeding again and would need to be patched up again, but apart from that, Sherlock's plan had been quite effective.

John's medical kit sat on the floor next to the bed and Sherlock walked over to get it. He had flung the towel over his shoulder and not wrapped it around his waist as John had originally feared. And then Sherlock knelt again in front of him, looking up with wide eyes, making John's heart race.

Trying to be gentle, Sherlock started to remove the make shift water proof and proceeded to unroll the bandage of John's right knee. "What happened?"

John sighed, remembering how strange it had felt to suddenly lose control over his body. "The drug or whatever it was ... when it started to work, I just fell. I couldn't stand up and I just fell."

Sherlock nodded as if understanding exactly what John was talking about. "I hate that your hands are injured," he stated, "but I'm glad that you are okay otherwise. You are okay, right?"

John's heart broke at the fear in those words. "Sherlock, I'm here. I'm with you. I'm okay."

Sherlock nodded and pulled away the cloth from the reopened cut. John watched as he cleaned the wound and dabbed away the blood. Suddenly he drew a sharp breath and was up in a second and out of the door. "Don't move!" he called as he thundered down the stairs. A few seconds later he was back, breathing hard, a determined expression on his face. He had brought glass slides and knelt back down in front of John who tried very hard not to laugh.

"I want to test your blood. Can't be sure that they will figure it out by themselves, and I want to know what it is that made all of them fall." John smiled and gently touched his cheek as he carefully pressed the first slide against the cut. Sherlock didn't let himself be distracted, but he unconsciously moved his head against John's hand. After repeating the process with three other slides, he carefully put them on the nightstand and proceeded to clean the wound. Eventually he applied a new cotton patch and wrapped a bandage around it.

When all the plastic was cleared away and the duct tape had joined the plastic on the floor, Sherlock moved to sit next to John on the bed. "I know this is not how you wanted it to be," he started, frowning, as if he was unhappy with the general situation. John looked at him sitting there, gloriously naked, and he understood that what he had thought was Sherlock's insecurity when it came to sex was not insecurity at all. It was now obvious that no matter how much or little experience he had, he knew exactly what to do. However, he must have been aware of John's thoughts, of his own doubts, especially after Sherlock understood that he needed to pay closer attention to John's wishes. John understood that Sherlock's request over the phone had really just been an attempt to nudge him into the right direction; to finally make him see sense and understand that when they both wanted sex, they should actually get on with it. Again, John was amazed at Sherlock's foresight, at his ability to assess his wishes and fears in order to find the perfect time and make it seem as if it was John who called the shots.

"It was everything I wanted it to be," he said quietly, leaning closer to Sherlock, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. For a few seconds Sherlock just sat there, unmoving, but then he turned his head, his eyes searching John's face.

"I wish I could touch you," John admitted quietly, looking down on his hands, "bloody concrete."

Sherlock looked at him as if he was dying to make a suggestion, and John raised both eyebrows at the renewed proof of Sherlock's creativity. He could see Sherlock struggle for words, but he found that maybe, just maybe he could use his helpless state to his own advantage. This was it, right? Now or never. "But maybe you could touch me while I can't?" he smiled and tried to look innocent, if only to amuse Sherlock.

"Tempting," Sherlock answered, the corners of his mouth twitching dangerously. "Very tempting, indeed."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

John suddenly found himself lying on his back, a very predatory looking Sherlock on top of him. How he could have ever assumed that Sherlock might need time was beyond him, and again the thought that Sherlock saw him as a puzzle came to his mind. It was obvious that he had denied himself his own wishes while John had thought he was being chivalrous.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock murmured, his eyes scanning his face as if he was a particularly interesting sample of an as yet unknown species. He couldn't help but giggle again. Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, and John tried his best to remain serious, but he really couldn't. He tried to keep the laughter at bay, but considering the fact that a very naked Sherlock was straddling him, scrutinising him as if he done something unforgivably bad, he couldn't keep a straight face. He didn't laugh, but the grin threatened to split his face.

He wanted to touch Sherlock's face again, wanted to feel him lean into him again, and so he brought up his left hand to push the hair out of Sherlock's eyes and gasped when a hand came up in a split-second and pressed his arm to the bed next to his face. The growl that escaped Sherlock's chest made John forget his grin. He had to think back to the moment when Sherlock had captured his hands in his shirt and only let him go when he asked him to. Holding his breath, he slowly brought up his right hand, knowing that it would be futile to try and tuck any hair away behind Sherlock's ear when all of his fingers were stuck in a thick bandage, but that wasn't really the point.

He could barely see Sherlock's reaction before his right hand was pressed into the mattress on the other side of his head. Sherlock looked down on him, his eyes still narrowed, his expression carefully blank. John wondered for a second what he would do if he struggled, but then he thought that it might not be the best idea considering that his erection had returned as soon as Sherlock had decided that sitting on John was in order, and Sherlock was also very obviously aroused again and John really wanted to know what he had planned for him now. If he struggled, Sherlock would probably let go, and he really didn't want him to let go.

John looked back at him, biting his lower lip, finding Sherlock's fixed gaze jumping to his mouth for only an instant before his eyes moved back to John's. He had to fight hard to keep the triumphant smile off his face. Sherlock might be in charge now, but it was obvious that John had figured out his weaknesses fairly quickly.

When Sherlock licked his lips, he found himself staring rather helplessly. Maybe he wasn't so much in control after all. Very slowly, Sherlock leaned down, putting more weight on John's wrists. Their faces an inch apart, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, moving up to very gently brush his lips over John's cheek. John's eyes fluttered closed and he could feel himself give in entirely. Whatever Sherlock would do, he would enjoy it, he was sure about that. And the loving gesture made his heart ache in the sweetest way possible. "John," Sherlock whispered as he moved across his face, their noses touching for a moment before he kissed his other cheek. John could feel his breath against his own lips, and he moved his chin up as to offer his lips for a kiss, but again, Sherlock denied him the pleasure. He was still there, so very close, but John knew that as soon as he would open his eyes, Sherlock would move back. He could almost see him grin triumphantly in his mind.

"John," he whispered again against his lips. "Don't move!" He hadn't changed his tone of voice, yet it was clearly a command. All he could do was nod.

He felt Sherlock carefully loosen his grip on his wrists and shuddered when he started to run his fingernails over the sensitive skin of his inner forearms towards the crook of his arm. At the same time he became very much aware of the fact that Sherlock was sitting on his stomach and that his own erection was pressing against Sherlock's arse. John swallowed and tried to concentrate on his arms, inhaling sharply when Sherlock's fingernails gently grazed the sensitive skin on the bend of his arms before moving toward his biceps, carefully avoiding the bruises. He felt himself tense up as Sherlock's fingers approached his armpits, but Sherlock stopped before he reached them, pushing himself up by pressing John's arms yet again into the mattress, drawing a grunt from him. He lifted himself off of John and moved off the bed.

"John?" his voice was very soft and John opened his eyes and had to blink a few times to be able to see properly. "Could you ...?" Sherlock motioned him to move further up on the bed as his legs were still hanging over the edge. Without a word, John pushed himself up on his elbows and moved back until he was lying in the middle of the bed.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled and just looked at him for a while. John knew that he must have looked quite funny; sprawled on the bed, his toes, his cock and his nose creating a nicely patterned vertical skyline, but then he saw the look on Sherlock's face and again he looked as if John was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He could feel his scar burn for a second, but he chose to ignore it. Now was not the time to be self conscious, not when Sherlock was about to explore him with keen eyes and gentle fingers. But then another thought popped into his mind and John couldn't help but giggle again.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand what amuses you so much," he stated, drily.

John swallowed and bit his lip. "I just ..." he tried to ignore the way Sherlock moved his weight onto his left foot, pushing out his hip to the other side, one hand propped up on a sharp hipbone as if he was impatiently waiting for Lestrade to finish his thought at a crime scene. Well, of course, the very prominent erection and the fact that he was naked seemed to distort that comparison a little, but what the hell.

He propped himself up on his elbows again, if only to be able to properly look at Sherlock, and grinned. "I just imagined you taking out your magnifying glass while you ... explore me."

No matter how determined Sherlock might have been to remain unimpressed, he couldn't keep the grin off his face. With a sudden move, he jumped onto the bed, landing half on top of John who squealed undignified at the sudden onslaught but was silenced rather effectively by the kiss that Sherlock planted on his lips. "John Watson, you amaze me," he said when he broke the kiss. "I don't know what I would do without you."

John knew that at this point it was very easy for the conversation to turn serious, and he refused to start yet another discussion about the dangers of living with Sherlock, so he decided to take it into a different direction. "You'd probably wank a lot," he chuckled and Sherlock laughed out loud. "Oh John, you have no idea."

"Wait what?" John stared at him, and suddenly he realised that he had indeed been concentrating too much on himself over the past weeks. "I'm an idiot," he said, sounding a little heartbroken.

Sherlock nuzzled his neck and chuckled. "Don't be obvious, John."

"Can you forgive me?"

Sherlock laughed breathlessly against his skin and then moved back, straddling John again, but this time kneeling over his thighs, and when he settled down their cocks came together and John forgot everything he had wanted to say. He stared into Sherlock's eyes which had gone dark with arousal, unsure if he would be able to get his lungs to work again. When Sherlock rocked against him, he moaned loudly and blindly grabbed Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and John could see that his self control was dangerously close to slipping. "This is so much better," he grunted, moving again, making John arch up against him. "Fuck!"

Sherlock laughed again, breathless, and John wondered whether he was dreaming this, because even in his wildest dreams he would have never imagined Sherlock to be like this. To be beautiful like this, so very beautiful, and gentle, and sexual and adorable. There it was again, and John wondered whether Sherlock usually invested a lot of energy to keep that part of himself hidden from the world.

Suddenly he imagined himself back in the freezing cold and dark room. What if all of this was just his mind playing tricks on him? What if he really wasn't here, but still there, the drug making him imagine things? Cold fear grabbed him and refused to let go. He felt his body tense involuntarily and the fear became all-consuming for a few moments. He pressed his eyes closed and concentrated on feeling the heat of Sherlock's body. Yes, the heat was definitely there, and he was dry and patched up and happy and oh so aroused.

His eyes snapped open again, and he pulled Sherlock down on him, ignoring the intense feeling of having both of their cocks trapped between their bodies. "I'm sorry," he whispered into Sherlock's hair.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, turning his head so his nose was pressed against John's cheek. "You're here. You said it yourself. You're here, with me. I found you."

The tears came unasked for, and John wondered if all of this was too much. His emotions just boiled over and for a moment he felt the need to pull away and be alone with his pain. But then again he couldn't imagine being anywhere else right now than in Sherlock's arms. And Sherlock held him for as long as he needed to be held.

"Make me forget all of this," he pleaded, his voice raspy. "Make me forget where I was."

And Sherlock pushed himself up on one elbow and gently wiped the tears from John's face. Then he kissed him, taking his sweet time to explore John's mouth, to taste the salt on his skin and John sighed into the kiss, content now that he was indeed safe and warm and cared for.

After a while, Sherlock's hand moved down from his face, gently tracing his collar bone and then his scar, carefully probing the tight skin, breaking the kiss momentarily to kiss it, just to move back up to his lips again.

How Sherlock could be so utterly good at this was beyond him, but he was incredibly glad for it. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock had spent quite a lot of time trying to figure out what John liked, and what he wanted. For a moment he remembered instances when Sherlock had watched him intently, when he had eaten, when he had talked, when he had licked his lips and nursed a bottle of beer in front of the telly.

"John," Sherlock reminded him quietly to stop thinking. "Thank you."

And John had to smile against the kiss, feeling Sherlock do the same. Then suddenly his hand disappeared from John's collar bone and as Sherlock moved to the side, John could feel his long fingers wrap around them both. His eyes snapped open and he groaned against Sherlock's lips. This time he would watch, he told himself and lifted his head, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder as he stroked them.

This was most decidedly different than any sex he had ever had, but he was not complaining. To feel the heat of Sherlock's cock against his own, his hand moving with expertise that proved yet again that Sherlock might have spent more than just a few lonely minutes in the shower every now and then, John could feel himself being dragged towards the edge much sooner than he had hoped. But really, there was no use in fighting it. He was utterly lost to Sherlock's hand and Sherlock knew exactly that, for once, he had complete control. A few more strokes and Sherlock moved his hand to let go of himself, making sure to turn all his attention to John.

John moaned loudly now, which seemed to encourage Sherlock to move faster. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, although he wasn't entirely sure that he should, considering how much faster he seemed to rush towards release as he watched Sherlock's hand pump him. "John," Sherlock whispered, kissing the top of his head, and John came, spilling over both of their stomachs, finally closing his eyes as he felt his body contract in aftershocks again and again as Sherlock gently held him in his hand.

It took him a few minutes to calm down. No wank had ever taken the wind out of his sails as profoundly as this orgasm just had. And it wasn't as if John hadn't been brought off by someone's hand before, but it hadn't been with Sherlock. It hadn't been with the one person he quite literally loved more than his own life.

But then he realised that he was unable to return the favour and he lifted his head to look at Sherlock, who looked positively desperate. "Sherlock," John groaned, his voice unusually low. "What can I do?"

He so badly wanted to touch him, and it was obvious that Sherlock was dying for him to do so, but the bandages really posed a problem. "Watch," was all Sherlock said, and John kissed him quickly and lowered his head again to watch Sherlock bring himself off. It didn't take long, and to watch the muscles on Sherlock's stomach contract and his toes curl made John wish even more that it would have been his own hand causing the reaction. The only sound that Sherlock made was a small, almost impatient grunt, and John promised himself that he would definitely make Sherlock lose control over his vocal chords as soon as he was able to. But now Sherlock rolled off him and pushed his hair out of his face. Then he exhaled loudly and grinned at John. "Still okay?" he asked, and John wished that he would stop being considerate for a second and just enjoy, but then he remembered that he still looked bruised and battered and that despite everything else, Sherlock still felt guilty about it.

"Perfect," John answered with a brilliant smile and leaned over to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed the towel from where he had flung it over the edge of the bed earlier and started to clean them up. As John leaned back and let Sherlock gently wipe at his stomach, he thought that from now on he would forgive Sherlock's inconsiderate attitude when it came to basics like grocery shopping. If he managed to plan ahead so far that he brought a towel with him to clean up after sex, then John would gladly buy the milk for the rest of his life.

"Sleep in my room?" Sherlock asked, and John chuckled weakly.

"You're syntax is shit when you are not working," John observed amused.

"All your fault," Sherlock smirked and pulled John up with him.

Sherlock didn't let go of his hand until they were in Sherlock's room, and John felt like a teenager again. Then he reminded himself of the fact that he had just been jerked off twice by the man attached to the hand he was holding and rephrased his thought. He felt loved.

When he climbed into the bed it hit him how much he had missed it. He hadn't really had time to think about his own bed like this, but to sink down and bury his face in Sherlock's pillow made him feel completely at home and safe. And when Sherlock switched off the light but left the curtains open as to let in some orange light from the street lamps and spooned him, John thought that despite his bruised body, he had never been happier in his life.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

John felt Sherlock leave, but he kept his eyes closed, pretending to not notice. He had woken up with a strange feeling of restlessness, but soon realised that it wasn't he himself who was restless but Sherlock. He started to very slowly untangle himself from John, trying to not wake him up. Once he had managed to move away, he remained quiet for a while, unmoving, but John could feel his breath against his back.

He was watching him sleep, he realised, and for a moment he wished he could see him do it. Sherlock's hesitation made it clear that he was torn between staying and leaving, but John guessed that now, in the middle of the night, Sherlock could be sure that John was safe and could finally get on with the case.

With a sleepy sigh that he was actually very proud of, he stretched a bit and turned around, his hands blindly searching for Sherlock, and, finding him, he snuggled close, his face against Sherlock's chest. And Sherlock huffed and remained still for a while, clearly wanting to just stay where he was. But eventually he carefully pushed John on his back and got out of the bed.

Before Sherlock left him, he made sure that the sheet covered him completely and he risked waking him up by leaning over and pressing a kiss to his lips. "I love you." His breath ghosted over John's face and he found it suddenly very hard to remain calm and feign sleep.

Then he was gone, and John rolled up into a ball, trying to fall asleep again. He wasn't sure what had happened exactly, but considering that only two weeks ago he had spent his first night ... or, well, day in this bed, feeling ridiculously nervous and not at all sure about what was going on, he found that his life had changed profoundly since then.

He fell asleep again, but woke up when it was still dark. The alarm clock read out 4:32 and he was sure that this was not a time for a normal human being to actually wake up and feel refreshed. Yawning, he got up and registered somewhere in the back of his mind that he was naked. For a few seconds he considered walking downstairs like he was, but decided that maybe, just maybe Sherlock would appreciate a little effort on his side to not distract him while he was working.

So he went to his room and pulled on his sweatpants and a t-shirt. He frowned at his hands, but noticed that they cut didn't hurt quite so much anymore and that his shoulders definitely felt much better than last night.

With a smile he slowly walked downstairs, trying to keep his legs as straight as possible. He found Sherlock dressed in his usual pyjamas and dress robe at the kitchen table, hunched over the microscope. When John entered the kitchen he didn't look up, but stretched out his arm into John's direction. John stepped closer and Sherlock took hold of his arm, gently running his thumb over his wrist. He did that for a few seconds and just as John started to wonder why he was doing it he remembered what Sherlock had told him about body contact.

"Have you found anything?" John inquired, if only to break the silence.

"Not yet, but I am not sure what I'm looking for. I have to get over to St. Bart's as soon as possible and compare the samples they took from the others."

John nodded and then moved to the sink and filled the kettle. Sherlock's hand remained extended in mid air for a while, as if he had forgotten about it after John moved away; or maybe he was just waiting for John to come back.

John leaned against the counter and watched Sherlock stare at the blood samples. Then he noticed a little moss green book on the table, filled with post-its. He picked it up. _William Shakespeare - The Tempest, Penguin Popular Classics._

He leafed through it, finding Sherlock's handwriting all over the book. Numbers and words were scribbled on every page, passages underlined and highlighted, and over each page that saw the beginning of a new act, he had written a name. His handwriting was all over the place, but when he opened the book on page 84, he found his name written in the most beautiful and careful handwriting, as if he had wanted to make sure that he wasn't just another note.

"Sherlock?" John asked, smiling as he traced his name with his plastered index finger.

"Hmm?"

"You let yourself care."

Sherlock moved back from the microscope for the first time, turning around to look at John. "Are you referring to the disagreement we had about caring about people?"

John nodded, remembering how upset he had been with Sherlock back then, and how it had bothered him that he had been so damn right again. He frowned at Sherlock. "Do you think you've changed since then?"

Sherlock kept his face carefully straight. "I cared about you, back then. I did, and I knew that you were disappointed in me, but John, things haven't changed. I can't worry about everyone who might or might not be targeted, or who might die in an accident, or who might jump off a bridge. I can't save these people, and neither can you. But I _can_ save you. Caring about you means that I can save you."

John nodded, at least thinking that he understood what Sherlock meant. Sherlock turned back to the microscope, and John made tea – two cups, already fearing that Sherlock wouldn't touch his, but he would never stop trying.

When he stood next to Sherlock to carefully put down the cup next to the microscope, Sherlock's hand came back up and sneaked under his t-shirt, coming to rest against the small of his back. John inhaled sharply, making Sherlock smirk. "Can I help you with anything?" John asked once he had recovered from the gentle gesture.

"Yes, you can stand here and let me touch you," was Sherlock's happy answer.

"Well, that sounds promising, but I think I need to put on some socks if you expect me to spend the next few hours here on the cold tiles."

"John." He didn't say anything else, and John smiled into his cup as he drank.

Tea, it must have been the tea. That Miranda, and Carl, had they been involved? "Did you talk to Carl?" John asked, knowing perfectly well that Sherlock might answer something along the lines of 'no, but I know you did.'

"I know you think he was involved, but he wasn't. He was quite shocked when I asked him about it. The woman has disappeared, though, so chances are that she was involved. The cup was cleaned when we tried to find it, and there were no traces of the tea you drank anywhere. Make sure to spill some next time you drink tea that you didn't prepare, just in case." His hand started to move his hand in small circles and John swallowed hard.

"By the way, you could have just told me to stay instead of feigning sleep, although I appreciate the effort." Sherlock grinned and looked up from the microscope. "Hand me the tea?" he asked, looking down on the cup that was merely a few centimetres from the microscope. John snorted and picked it up, handing it over so Sherlock could hold it with his left hand, as his right one was still occupied elsewhere.

"The numbers on your blog correspond with the pages in the book. If I am not entirely mistaken, the height of the fall represents the line in the text, and I believe that the line following line 30 always was a clue to the next murder. But it's sloppy." He sipped on his tea and sighed, his thumb tracing John's spine. "It's too easy, too much of an amateur's work, anyone could have come up with this. What irritates me is that the crime scenes also correspond geographically, but I am not entirely sure whether they even realised it. If you take a map you will find that all of the places are almost on one line, except for the Penguin headquarters, and I am still not sure whether this is really just some silly joke or something extraordinary. But no matter how amateur the whole affair seems to be, the fact that everyone was drugged with a substance that can paralyse and seems to be remote controlled, now that is anything but."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and exhaled. "It hasn't happened to you since I found you. I don't understand why that is."

John smiled and finished his tea. "Frankly, I don't care. I'm home, that's all I care about."

Sherlock nodded and the put down his cup and pulled him close, resting his forehead against John's stomach, a gesture that John found utterly endearing.

"You know, it was a good thing I kissed you," he said, his face still hidden from John's sight.

"How do you mean?" John ran his left hand through Sherlock's curls, hating the plaster.

"The way I behaved when I realised you were gone wasn't exactly professional. I think if they hadn't know how I feel about you, they would have thought me completely mad."

John chuckled and Sherlock pulled him even closer, pressing his face against him now. "Could you maybe apologise to Lestrade for me?" he sounded hopeful and about twelve years old.

"Oh Sherlock," was all he could say, grinning down on the head full of curls below him. "I planned on doing that anyway."

"Good." Sherlock sat up again and proceeded to stare down the microscope.

"Do I need to stand here so you can touch me or could I maybe move to the couch?" John asked with a grin.

As an answer, Sherlock moved his hand lower, until he had reached the rim of John's sweatpants, and then kept going. John froze as his hand made its way into his pants and squeezed his right buttock. "Just giving you something to keep you occupied while you relax on the couch," Sherlock said slyly.

"Sherlock," John spluttered and tried to ignore the stirring in his groin. "Good god."

Sherlock let go and shooed him away, but John caught him looking as he walked backwards into the living room.

On the couch, John decided to make himself useful and opened his laptop. Thankful to have something to preoccupy him, he searched for the anonymous comment on his blog, only to find that it was deleted. "Sherlock, it's gone."

"Yes, that's why I think the whole thing is over, but I am not quite convinced yet."

"Did you write them down?"

"Of course I did."

"Let me see them."

"Get them."

"Are you serious?" John laughed. Sherlock being playful was yet another thing that just had not happened before. When Sherlock didn't answer he stood up again and walked back to the kitchen table. Sherlock didn't move, and John was fairly sure that he had put the note into the one back pocket of his pyjama pants. "Sherlock, you know I am not very versatile with my hands right now."

Sherlock looked at him, a grin barely hidden. His eyes wandered to his lips and John huffed out a nervous laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock managed to look almost hurt, and John realised that Sherlock now possessed an even greater weapon against his resistance. Until now, he had always somehow managed to talk John into doing things for him. He had used logic or twisted John's arguments in a way that he couldn't deny him or John got so annoyed that he would rather do as he was bid than listen to more of his elaborations.

Now he could always use emotional blackmail, or simply look cute.

"No." John said, already knowing he had lost the argument before it had even started. If he had been serious about not trying, he wouldn't have come back to the kitchen.

"Your left hand is in perfect working condition, at least for that task."

"Task, huh?" John shook his head.

Sherlock scowled and pulled the note out of his back pocket. "When the plaster is gone, there will be no more excuses," he chided John, who laughed and took the note from him. As he turned around Sherlock stopped him. "John?"

"What now?" He looked down on Sherlock, who seemed a little unsure why he had stopped him, but whose frown turned into a brilliant smile as he looked up at him. "Kiss?"

"Oh my god, Sherlock!" John laughed, feigning exasperation. But he leaned down and planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Nobody would ever believe me ...," he walked back into the living room, sitting down on the couch.

"I would have to kill you if you ever tried to tell anyone," Sherlock stated, sounding remarkably like his old self.

"I love you," John grinned and unfolded the paper in his hands.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_2 7 7 4 5 9 8 0 8 4_

John frowned at the numbers and picked up the book.

_She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father  
Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir,_

"Sherlock, it doesn't make sense. How would you know that this has anything to do with the other murders?"

"The man at White City, he was Italian, from Milan, to be exact. The man at the BBC was the sole heir of a company that used to employ Gill when he was making the statues."

_Therefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded; and  
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,_

"Okay, but this does not make sense."

"No, it does. The sports company has just recently started advertising scuba diving and sailing and incidentally uses a plummet in their campaign. McKinley was just working on that campaign when it happened."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"I think you are right, all of this is pretty far-fetched ..."

"But well researched ..."

_These be fine things, and if they be not sprites:  
That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor_

"So the fourth one was at the Penguin headquarters? Was he also drunk?"

"No, but he had a bottle of Whisky with him. Elaborate, really. An American brand: Heaven Hill Distilleries."

_And like the baseless fabric of this vision  
The cloud-capp'd Towers, the gorgeous Palaces,_

John exhaled slowly. "Is this how you knew?"

"Partly, yes. There weren't that many places left that could be linked to the play. I wish I would have thought of it sooner."

"Was it six when you found me?"

"Hmm?"

"Was it six?"

"Possibly, I didn't really care for the time ..."

John got back up and carried the book over to Sherlock.

_On the sixth hour, at which time, my Lord  
You said our work should cease._

"So it's done." John guessed, leaving the book on the table.

"That can't be all! You could have died if I hadn't found you. They made a video, why did they make a video?"

"Maybe to make sure that I wouldn't?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Come with me to St. Bart's?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"But it's not even six."

"Exactly."

John looked at him, understanding slowly dawning. "You think they are not done?"

"If they really put all this work into finding textual references to the murders, or vice versa, I'm certain that they wouldn't just stop. They killed four men, and almost succeeded in ...," he broke off, running his hands through his hair. "The point is, they must want something, prove something. They wouldn't just stop and be done with it."

John inhaled deeply. "I'll get dressed."

Sherlock nodded and got up, following John upstairs and into his room. John smiled as he started to sort out his clothes. "Are you going to help me get dressed?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. But Sherlock only shrugged in return. "Just making sure you're okay. If the drug managed to paralyse you so profoundly, I'm sure it can't be out of your system just yet, and I wouldn't want you to collapse without me noticing it and you might hurt yourself ...," John closed the gap between them and pulled him in for a kiss. If Sherlock didn't want to admit that he wanted to see him naked again now that he had permission to it was fine with him.

He walked back to where he had put his clothes and stripped out of his t-shirt, deliberately getting caught in it as he was pulling it over his head, staggering about a bit until two warm hands helped him to ease out of it. John tried hard to keep the grin off his face, but he didn't quite succeed. Sherlock stepped back, swallowing, clearly aware that he had been played.

"I'll ... erm ... I'll ...," he staggered out of the room. John frowned and hurried up getting dressed. Sherlock's door was not closed, but he knocked anyway.

"John?"

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock was just buttoning up his shirt. "Yes, just distracted." He stalked over to the window and looked outside. "Mycroft's men are still here, I'll ask one of them to keep an eye on Mrs Hudson."

"Sorry."

He turned around and for one second John remembered the slight stagger in his move when he had sneezed back then in the living room, just after the almost kiss.

"No, please, don't apologise," he said quickly and then straightened out his shirt. "Ready?"

John put on the coat he had hung up downstairs, remembering that he had left his gun in its pocket. With a sigh he pulled it out and took it back upstairs, hiding it under a stack of papers on Sherlock's desk. They left the warmth of the flat and were greeted with bitter cold. John coughed when he inhaled deeply and Sherlock looked at him with concern. "I'm fine," John answered automatically, marvelling at Sherlock's unusually worried expression.

It was eerily quiet, and John wondered where Sherlock had seen Mycroft's men, because he didn't hear a mouse stirring. As they walked towards Euston Station to get a cab, Sherlock buried his hands in the pockets of his coat, and John wondered why he was wearing a coat that was clearly too big for him, and which seemed to fit him perfectly nevertheless.

"Why did you buy me that jumper?" John didn't know where it came from, but it seemed to strike him as strange that Sherlock would do something so random and be shy about it. Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder, shrugging, not in an answer, but rather against the cold. "You always wore it when ... when something important happened. You wore it at the library, you wore it when I left for Canada and you wore it when I came back. You also wore it when you shot the cabbie ..."

"Did I?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled and stopped in his steps, drawing one arm around John. "It is my favourite jumper, right after the black and white striped one."

John laughed and looked at Sherlock, slightly unsure whether he was serious or just taking the piss at his choice of clothing.

They reached the station and Sherlock walked past the row of waiting cabs, purposefully ignoring the rule of taking the first one. Eventually he stopped and opened the door to one quite far towards the end of the row, causing other cabbies to angrily curse at them. John hurried to get into the cab as well.

"John, this is Anthony, Anthony, this is John," Sherlock introduced them.

"Hi."

"St. Bart's?" The cabby asked, looking at Sherlock as if he didn't expect any other answer than yes.

"Of course."

Sherlock smirked at John, clearly enjoying his confusion, and John wondered just how many people Sherlock knew in London and whether every single one of them owed him a favour.

When they reached the hospital, Sherlock handed the cabby a note, but no money. "Thank you, Anthony," he said and the cabby tipped his hat in a salute. "Always a pleasure, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock rang the bell at the front door, and John was almost sure that they would have to resort to alternative ways of getting into the building, as, for instance, by picking the lock of the door, but eventually it was opened and they were let inside. "Good morning," Sherlock said enthusiastically to a rather tired looking elderly man who just waved them past. "Mornin' Holmes."

It was completely silent in the hospital, and John didn't really like to be back here, especially since they were not even remotely close to the wing that held actual living patients. But Sherlock just pushed the door open to the laboratory, tutting at the way things had been rearranged since he had last been here. "Molly," he said, shaking his head.

John sat down on a chair and watched as Sherlock started pulling objects out of his coat pockets as if they were his Mary Poppins bag. He had wrapped the glass slides in a tea towel and carefully laid them out next to the microscope. Then he turned around himself once, trying to figure out what else he needed for his experiments. It was actually quite enjoyable for John to watch Sherlock getting ready to do something. Usually he interrupted him while he was working, but watching him get ready made it all more human and less outer-worldly.

"Can I help?" he asked, just to make sure that Sherlock remembered that he was there.

"No, just be here," was the answer, and after he had put down a few instruments and sorted out some strangely coloured liquids, he tuned to him with a smile, "but thank you for offering."

John smiled back, trying to ignore the butterflies that Sherlock had unleashed in his stomach as he had smiled at him. Now was definitely not the time for that, he chided himself.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started to furiously text someone, presumably Lestrade. That was when John remembered that he had never gotten his phone back after the hospital.

"Sherlock, what happened to my phone?"

Sherlock put down his own on the table and looked at him. "I have no idea. I thought you had it with you, but then I didn't ask ..."

"What happened to my clothes anyway?" John asked, deciding to go and look for them, no matter what state they might be in.

"They probably kept them somewhere, put them in the laundry, burned them, I don't know." Sherlock sat down and concentrated on the microscope.

"Very helpful."

"Don't be sarcastic, it doesn't suit you."

"You were the one trying to be funny."

"No, I stated the options."

"Sherlock!"

He looked up from the microscope and frowned. "John?"

"Could you try and call it?"

"The battery was dead last time I tried, two nights ago."

"Right," John sighed, looking down on his hands, fiddling with a string that had come loose on his bandage.

Sherlock exhaled audibly, causing John to look at him again, and picked up his phone and pressed one button on the top. With a flash of joy John realised that his number was the first on Sherlock's speed dial. It shouldn't mean so much to him, but it did. Sherlock waited for a while, and then shook his head. Straight to mailbox, John presumed.

"Hello John's mailbox, would you kindly inform me of the whereabouts of John's phone? I'd be eternally grateful." Sherlock ended the call and tried to ignore John's amused stare. When Sherlock's phone rang, however, both of them jumped. Sherlock stared at the screen, not picking it up.

"What?" John moved over to the table, trying to see what Sherlock saw.

"It's your number," Sherlock's voice was very quiet.

Well, if Sherlock wasn't going to pick up, he would. John grabbed Sherlock's phone and picked up, putting the person on the other end on speaker, watching Sherlock shake his head warningly and stepped back, just in case Sherlock would try to take it from him.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" It was his own voice speaking back at him. How was this possible?

"Who is this?" He swallowed, watching Sherlock tense.

"This is John Watson, who is this?"

John blinked rapidly. "That is impossible."

"Why?" The voice seemed relaxed and mildly bored.

"Because I am John Watson."

"Are you? Funny."

"No it is not. Why do you have my phone and where are you?"

Sherlock slowly moved to the door, opening it and looking outside. He shook his head to signal John that they were alone.

"Where are you?" he repeated.

"Where are you?"

John felt his hand shake and he wished that he were in better shape right now. Whoever was playing the prank on him would not just be in it for the fun. But at least he was fairly sure that it was not Jim Moriarty on the other end.

"Okay, fucking stop it! Who are you, and why do you have my phone?"

The voice changed significantly, and after a few words John realised why; it changed into a female voice. "You know who I am and where I am. You just forgot to look for me."

John stared at Sherlock in the hopes of him coming up with an idea.

"Miranda?"

"Did you like the tea? Everyone loved it. Most relaxing cuppa you've ever had, wasn't it? So how do you feel now? Relaxed?" John could feel his body give, just as the other times and he fell where he stood. Sherlock was quick enough to catch him but fell with him, cradling John in his arms. The phone was on the floor and the voice still spoke. "You managed to get out of the tower, didn't you? The fairytale had a happy ending. Do you really think that? Your friend came to rescue you, but he doesn't know what happened to you. He doesn't know that you are yet going to fall ... and die."

Sherlock carefully held him, one hand on his arm, checking his pulse. John couldn't feel it, but he saw and it kept him from panicking.

"You can always fall, you know. Drown, drown like the books of my father, break your spine like his staff. End this and put everyone out of their misery. Yes, John, that is what you can do for me."

John could hear the door open and he saw Sherlock look at it in shock, but he couldn't turn his head to see who it was. Before anything else could happen, Sherlock put his index fingers against his lips, signalling whoever had just entered to be quiet. He heard a small squeal and was sure that it was Molly.

"How does it feel like knowing you are going to die, John? Did you really think we would let you live? Did you? Think again." The phone clicked and the voice was gone, the room drowning in silence. With a gasp he recovered from the paralysis, coughing and clinging to Sherlock, who pulled him tightly against him. "I'm here," he whispered against his hair, "you're okay, I'm here." Slowly John relaxed, but the feeling that something was incredibly wrong did not let go of him.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" Molly asked, wide eyed, and John scrambled to his feet. It was a medical impossibility, he realised. He couldn't be paralysed like this without his heart or lungs failing. How could he hear and see but not move?

"John, sit down," Sherlock ordered from the ground, and John looked down on him. He was clearly shaken by what had happened.

Molly grabbed a chair and pushed John into it. "I'll get you something to drink, you look like death."

Sherlock rose from the ground, picking up his phone in the process. "Molly!" he then yelled, loud enough to wake the actual dead in the mortuary. She returned, looking rather flustered, a bottle of water for John in her hand. "Molly, I need the blood samples of the other victims and I need them now."

Molly nodded and almost fell over her feet as she rushed out to get them. John looked at Sherlock, who was nervously tapping the phone against the table, shaking his head slowly. He was thinking, and even though John wanted nothing more than to be held by him, he didn't move and watched Sherlock as he systematically ran through the data base in his head, trying to fit his case into any kind of frame.

When Molly came back, Sherlock walked back to the microscope, clearing away everything that surrounded his work space, motioning Molly to put down the samples. The next thirty minutes were spent in silence. John watched Sherlock and Molly, who stood in the corner, fidgeting now and then, sometimes wanting to say something but every time she caught herself and closed her mouth again.

Finally, John's stomach rumbled loudly and Sherlock's head snapped up. He looked incredibly guilty. "I'm sorry, John," he said, running one hand through his hair. Molly frowned at his apology and John was sure that she had never heard anything remotely like an apology coming from Sherlock. "I'll get you ..."

"No, it's fine, I can go and get some breakfast and ..."

"Out of the question!" Sherlock was adamant. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Then come with me and ..."

"Molly?" Sherlock turned to her, managing an almost believable smile. "Would you be so kind as to get John something to eat? A sandwich and possibly some fruit? Lovely."

Molly looked a little unsure, but then she seemed to remember the state John had been in when she had entered the laboratory, and so she nodded and quickly walked out.

"Did you find anything?" John asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

"You're right. If it had been a general paralysing drug, it would have affected you differently. But you kept all your senses except for touch? So you were in a temporary vigil coma. Most strange." John was acutely aware that he had not voiced his concerns about his paralysis.

Sherlock leaned over the microscope again, but then sighed exasperatedly and stood up, rounding the table, stopping in front of John. He put one warm hand on his cheek, tracing the bruise there with his thumb. "I'll figure it out, I promise you. I can't have you not feel me," he said, quietly, and John had to smile, despite the sadness in Sherlock's voice.

"It was always temporary, wasn't it?" he tried to sound light hearted, although he felt anything but. "I'm sure you could always use those five minutes to catch your breath if it should happen while we are in bed." He spoke very quietly, fearing that Molly might come back any second, and also he was pretty sure that Mycroft had bugged the laboratory.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and pulled John against him. It was a strange mirror image of the position they had been in at the kitchen table just hours before and John loved the fact that Sherlock seemed to know what would calm them both down. Familiarity.

Molly came back, gasping when she saw them, and John wondered for the first time what she was thinking. Judging from her face she seemed a bit heartbroken. Nevertheless, she handed John a plate with a sandwich, an apple and a banana. "Thanks, love," John smiled at her, hoping that maybe she would forgive him for the rather unexpected disillusionment.

"No problem." She seemed a bit distracted, but straightened herself up and looked up at Sherlock. "What happened to him?"

"And this is the right question to the answer of _I don't know_." Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, realising that Sherlock was very close to unleashing his frustration on Molly.

"You were conscious, weren't you?" she asked John, who felt, now that he was eating, how unbearably hungry he had been without noticing. Apparently, he was not safe from the loss of appetite in connection with being in love. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Yes, I could still hear and see; only the musculoskeletal system seemed to be blocked somehow."

"And you didn't find anything in the blood samples?" This one was directed at Sherlock, who glared at her.

"I've only ever seen this once, on the telly. It was rather disturbing, but a man was trying to make people fall asleep and tried his hand at hypnosis, but he only managed to put them into a coma," she chortled to herself, causing Sherlock to glare at her, but suddenly his hands dropped on the table next to the microscope, realisation dawning on his face. "Ohh," he groaned. "Ohh, this is ... why didn't I ..." He looked at John and then back at Molly and then he started to roam through the liquids on the table, scrutinising the blood samples and trickling differently coloured liquids onto them. Every now and then he checked his phone for something. He worked feverishly, buzzing with energy but at the same time completely concentrated and silent. Eventually he looked up, exhaling slowly. "It's midazolam-morphine."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

"What?" John and Molly asked at the same time.

Sherlock looked at them through slightly narrowed eyes. "What were you doing while you should have been paying attention in class?" Sherlock said, sounding somewhat disappointed that his brilliant discovery was not recognised as such. Clearly, a pathologist and a surgeon should be able to recognise the drug.

"Sherlock, I know you think we are stupid, but could you please explain what you mean?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly, pushing back his shoulders, raising his head a little so he could still look down on them, even though he was the only one sitting right now. "A few years back, scientists found out that it is easier to hypnotise someone when they have been given midazolam. Now, it is also used as an anaesthetic for surgeries and a potent drug to overcome epilepsy, although it is highly addictive." John nodded, unimpressed; he knew all of that. "When used for hypnosis, it seemed to work even better in combination with morphine. Hence, midazolam-morphine." He smiled, obviously waiting for John's approval. When it didn't come, his smile faltered.

"You did not just google that, did you?" John asked, carefully keeping his voice in check, but Molly looked at him a little uncertain.

"I might have experimented ..."

"Sherlock."

"Not since I've know you." He sounded defensive, and John tried to silence the alarm bells in his head. "I promise," Sherlock said, looking him straight in the eye.

John sighed and nodded. "Sorry. But how ..."

"She must have put it in your tea. Now, usually, it doesn't last very long, so I guess the dose must have been fairly high, and it was probably also mixed with other sedatives. If she managed to hypnotise you, she might have given you signal words, or thoughts, for that matter, that would trigger a reaction, a reaction that would be strengthened by the drug. It is strange that it would still work now, but this time it did not last five minutes, did it?"

"No."

"Good, that's good," he smiled a relieved smile, and John remembered that it might be a puzzle for Sherlock to crack, but the puzzle concerned him, so finding the answer was not just something he did to make a point; he did it to save him.

"Molly," for the first time since John had seen them together, his smile was honest. "Could you go and get me a phial of flumazenil? Please?" He added, making Molly blush.

"Of course," she smiled back, but then seemed to remember that flirting wasn't in order with John in the room, and so she looked at him apologetically and left.

"Flumazenil, of course," John smiled. "I could have thought of that myself."

Sherlock grinned and then picked up the phone. "It's imperative that they think that we don't know what's going on. Ask her where you should go."

"Go?"

"Well, obviously, since it's past six now, they might want to see you drown this evening. Now there aren't that many places where you can drown in London, are there?"

He handed John the phone, but made sure to gently rub his thumb over John's wrist when he took it.

"And after that, we'll take off those bandages. Two days should be enough." John grinned at Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned back.

Molly cleared her throat nervously as she walked back in. "Here you go," she said, a little breathlessly, and handed John a bag with a phial and a syringe. "You can do it yourself, right?"

John nodded and looked at Sherlock. "You don't think we should actually ask someone first? A second opinion?"

Sherlock smiled. "No, 0,4 mg should suffice."

"That's a lot, Sherlock, and I am not in a coma right now."

"So we'll have to wait."

John frowned and looked at Sherlock, who seemed to think that his thoughts were written somewhere in the air between them.

"I cannot administer the shot myself when I can't move."

"I've done it before," Sherlock argued, clearly uncomfortable referring to events in his past. "Trust me, I will know what to do."

"Okay." John rubbed his hands together, realising that it looked ridiculous with the bandages all over the place. "So how do we do this? I call her and hope she puts me back in that state and you go and hope that you won't kill me with that?"

"Precisely."

"Good, okay." He blinked and then pressed down the 1 on Sherlock's phone, waiting two seconds until his number appeared on speed dial. Sherlock was preparing the shot, his hands completely still, his eyes focused.

The call went straight to voice mail again. He listened to his own voice and waited for the beep. "Miranda, I don't care what you want to do with me, but you forget that I have friends in the police force and they can make sure that I won't be anywhere near water at six tonight. Yes, six, that one was easy to figure out now." He could see Sherlock's left eyebrow quirk just the slightest bit. "And I guess that the drug will eventually lose its power, won't it? After tonight there won't be much that you can do about it. Well, your little plan was all for nothing then. I'm not afraid of you." He hung up and inhaled deeply, waiting for the return call.

Just the fact that it came calmed him down. They followed a pattern, they were predictable. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Hold me?" He knew it was not exactly professional and he was very aware of the fact that they weren't at home, but really, if Molly couldn't stand it, she would just have to leave.

Sherlock took the phone and picked up, putting it on speaker again. John sniffed and took it from him. "Hello?"

"How nice of you to call back, but how very stupid of you to think that you could escape your fate. Nobody can, don't you see?"

"How do you do it?" John inquired, leaning back into Sherlock's arms as he embraced him, pushing up his sleeve to get ready for the injection.

"Don't you just enjoy letting go? Isn't it relaxing? Carl thought so, too. He was so very sweet when I told him about how I was going to kill you. He wanted to run after you, poor lad. Too bad he is locked up, now, isn't it?"

John could feel Sherlock tense against him. If Carl was in danger, they would have to go and see him. He hoped to god that he wasn't dead.

"Why me?" he asked. He needed to know; he needed to know whether Moriarty was behind this and why he had been targeted.

"All lost, to prayers, to prayers, all lost. " The voice sounded almost dreamy. "You do not ask the right questions."

John shook his head. This was definitely not his realm, but Miranda couldn't know that Sherlock was with him, waiting patiently for paralysis to set in. Molly stood in the door, watching them with wide eyes.

"Where do you plan on seeing me drown?"

"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea, for an acre of barren ground: long heath, brown furze, any thing; the wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death."

"Ridiculous," John mumbled.

"No," the voice was shrill now and he felt Sherlock's arm tighten protectively around him. "You are ridiculous. You and your pathetic friend. Well you are out of your depths now, aren't you?"

"Why the Tempest?" John asked, tired of playing this game. Couldn't she just go ahead and make him lose control again so Sherlock could inject the antidote and everything would be alright?

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep ..." The connection broke off.

John could feel the needle pierce his skin before he fell. For a second he feared that Sherlock would not be able to hold him up, but he managed, one hand across his chest, the other calmly pressing the drug into his arm. It took him only seconds to recover, but he knew that things might not work out the way they should. Sherlock dropped the syringe on the table and turned him around, hugging him tightly against him. "It worked," he sighed against his ear.

When John trusted his legs again, he stood on his toes and kissed Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around him even more tightly than before. Then he remembered Molly, and with a guilty smile he detached himself from Sherlock, carefully stepping away.

She was gone. John looked at Sherlock who just shrugged, fighting the urge to go after her to make sure that she was okay. "John," Sherlock held out his hand, "just another minute."

John bit his lip and smiled and he could see the effect he was having on Sherlock. He was clearly in a situation where he had wanted to be professional, here at his work place, but the hug and the tenderness and finally the shared moment of relief had cut through his professionalism and now he was a bit at a loss as to how to behave.

So John kissed him again, making sure that he got what he wanted now, so he could sort out his thoughts later. Sherlock quietly moaned into the kiss, and John was sure that he hadn't done it on purpose, but it made it infinitely harder to draw back again.

"We have to help Carl," John said quietly, "and we have to inform Greg and Dimmock."

Sherlock nodded and picked up his phone from the floor where it had landed as John's strength gave out. Lestrade was apparently number two on his speed dial. John grinned to himself. "I'll see where Molly disappeared to," John said, "I think I need to apologise."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but when John walked towards the door, he followed him. "Lestrade, good morning. Did I wake you up? Good!"

John chuckled and decided that he would have to buy Lestrade more than one pint next time they went out.

"You need to come in, yes, now. Make sure Carl is safe, apparently he has been under the influence of the same drug that John ...," he stopped, apparently listening to Lestrade lecturing him about making demands at half past six on a Sunday morning. "We found out what it is," he then stated, apparently unimpressed by whatever Lestrade had told him. "John seems okay for now. I'll be staying with him until we can be sure, but you need to come in."

Molly sat in the cafeteria, chewing on a piece of toast. John shot Sherlock a look that told him to stay quiet; then he sat down at her table.

"Listen, Molly. I know that you are ... disappointed." She looked at him with wide eyes and then shook her head. "No, no, it's fine. At least now I know why ...," she didn't have to finish that thought.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

She nodded and shoved another piece of toast into her mouth. "It's not like I had any chance anyway." She tried to sound light hearted, but even without the toast in her mouth it would have been futile. Sherlock was chatting away in the background and it was obvious that he was very relieved.

"I'm sure you'll find someone who ... treats you right." He tried to look encouraging, but he wasn't sure whether Molly even cared for that.

"Sure," she said quietly, nodding again.

"Thank you for your help," John added, giving her hand a light squeeze, hoping that she knew that he was indeed thankful. She blushed, and John pulled back his hand.

"John, we're going," Sherlock suddenly announced, walking over to where they sat, offering him a hand. John frowned at him, but Sherlock's face didn't betray his thoughts. So John took his hand and let himself be pulled upright. "Good day, Molly, you have been most helpful today." Sherlock sounded serious, and John hoped that maybe she would bear the news lighter now that she had done something right in Sherlock's eyes. On any other occasion, Sherlock usually left her with a biting remark, so this was definitely an improvement.

They walked down to Newgate to get a cab, and Sherlock walked very close to John, obviously afraid that he might fall yet again. Sherlock called a cab, but there wasn't a single one that would stop for them. Sherlock cursed under his breath, and John was just about to say something on the matter when he realised that it had nothing to do with busy cabs, and everything with the sleek black limousine that approached them and stopped exactly in front of Sherlock.

The door opened and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He let John climb in first, gently pressing his hand to the small of his back as he leaned forward. Mycroft sat across them, a stern look on his face.

"Good morning, Sherlock," he said, pointedly looking at his brother. "John."

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Sherlock asked, and John asked himself for the millionth time why they couldn't just behave like normal people. Oh right, they were brothers. Insane brothers, more likely, and highly explosive when left unattended.

"How do you feel, John? I trust my dear brother managed to find a cure for your ailment."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as if he was reading something into that statement that he was missing. "I'm alright, I think. We can't be sure, but ..."

"Good, good." Mycroft looked at both of them for a minute, and John wasn't really sure why they were in a car with Mycroft; certainly not so he could inquire about his health.

The car started moving without any instruction. "We have located your phone," Mycroft said suddenly, directing his glance at John. "We will make sure that you are safe when you arrive at the location, but I am afraid that you might have to dive into the Thames tonight."

"I have to what?" John stared at the man in front of him, not quite comprehending what he was saying.

"See, we found out that the murders, including your kidnapping and the rather unfortunate incident at New Scotland Yard follow a pattern. A group of Chemistry students," he frowned, as if this was something exceptionally dreadful, and John remembered that Stamford had told him that Sherlock had studied Chemistry before he had met him, "and they developed a rather advanced technique in chemically induced hypnosis."

John wondered why he was telling them all of this when Sherlock had found out about all of that just an hour ago. "You see, they have been rather quiet, testing here and there, and we have had them on our radar for quite a while." He seemed to wait for some sort of approval, but John just stared at him.

"Well, it appears that _someone_ has invested a large sum of money into their research, planting the neat little idea of using a text of good old Shakespeare as the blueprint to their murders in their heads. It really started when they realised that they had the power to let people commit suicide, only ...," Sherlock sighed, looking out of the dark, tinted window. "Only that it wasn't suicide, was it?"

Mycroft sighed deeply in answer to Sherlock's sigh. "Indeed."

"So you think Moriarty invested in their little project to see what they would do?" Sherlock asked, turning to face his brother. His hand came to rest on John's knee, and John could see Mycroft's lips twitch for just a second.

"John injured him and crossed his plan, so I am fairly sure that he wanted to punish you for it." He didn't speak to either of them in particular, and John realised that Moriarty indeed understood exactly what power he had over them.

"Okay, and you require me to jump into the Thames why?"

"We'll make sure you won't drown."

"He has been sick, Mycroft, and he has suffered from hypothermia. Even if he spends only a minute in that ice cold water he might still suffer from severe ..."

"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted him. "We will make sure that nothing happens to him."

Sherlock moved closer to John, pressing his thigh against John's. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.

"Okay." John wasn't sure he wanted to imagine himself in the murky waters of the Thames, but if this was what it took to take down the murderers, he would certainly try to help.

Mycroft smiled a rather satisfied smile. "Good to know you haven't changed, Doctor."

John shrugged and leaned into Sherlock. He wished he could interlace their fingers and just be closer to him, and just for that he would do whatever it took. They might not get to Moriarty, but they would catch the ones who were immediately responsible for his state and that would at least give him some satisfaction.

When the car stopped, John wanted to just sit in it for a bit longer. He felt warm, and even though he was merely leaning against Sherlock, he felt very safe and comfortable.

"A car will be waiting for you, and someone will fill you in." Mycroft looked at them with something like a gentle expression, and the way Sherlock tensed next to him told John that he was seeing it, too.

"Good day."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Lestrade was waiting for them, looking utterly exhausted. John did not dare to look at Sherlock, but he knew that there must have been a gleeful expression on his face, because Lestrade rolled his eyes at him.

"Good morning," Sherlock said about as cheerful as it got.

"Hey Greg," John greeted him, "I'm sorry that you had to come in so early."

"Never mind, I'm glad you informed me," he looked at Sherlock who walked past him with an air of arrogance that seemed even more severe in comparison to Lestrade's slightly ruffled appearance than it usually would. "About Carl Whistler," he finished, shrugging and shaking his head as if he was disappointed in himself to expect anything else from Sherlock than his regular behaviour.

When Sherlock walked into the building, leaving John and Lestrade to hurry after him, the DI turned to John, looking at him a little disconcerted. "I hope you're alright? I mean, it can't be easy ...," he didn't finish that thought and John decided against reading anything into those words apart from concern for his health and safety.

"He holds up well, I think," he said instead.

"He? I was worried about you, but ..."

"You were right, you know, when you said he wouldn't know what to do if something happened to me. I know he's hiding it well, but I'm pretty sure he'll need a break after all of this."

Lestrade nodded, getting the hint. "I'll keep him out of cases. He's going to drive you up the wall, but if that's what you want ..."

"Thank you." John nodded. "And tomorrow, you'll take the day off and get drunk with me."

They laughed as they entered the building, and Sherlock, who was nervously pacing the front hall quirked an eyebrow at them. John smiled and walked up to him while Lestrade talked to the porter. "I think he'll be alright," he murmured quietly, referring to Sherlock's request to apologise for him. "Just behave, okay?"

Sherlock lowered his head so that their faces were awfully close together. "Does that mean that I am not allowed to kiss you?" The smile in his eyes made John weak in the knees. Once again, the bandages saved the day.

"Gentlemen?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Lestrade, your timing is impeccable."

"Sherlock," John said warningly, but Sherlock decided to stare Lestrade down yet again. John spent a good ten seconds trying desperately not to laugh. Sherlock was clearly not able to switch smoothly between his two personalities, and Lestrade was getting a good show of that glitch.

"Sherlock, has it occurred to you that somewhere in your subconscious you do this to annoy me?" Lestrade asked, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. John snorted and tried to hide his amusement in a cough, but it was obvious that Sherlock knew what was going on.

He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders and yet again walked past them down the hall, stopping only at the lifts, pushing the call button with a little more vigour than would have been strictly necessary and John bit into the collar of his coat to keep himself from laughing. Lestrade managed to keep a straight face, but probably only because he was still so tired.

In the lift, Sherlock moved to the back, keeping his chin up, ignoring both Lestrade and John. Lestrade pushed a button and as the doors closed, John moved to stand next to Sherlock, their arms touching. When the lift started moving, his left hand sneaked into Sherlock's coat and to the small of his back. His fingers might have been taped up, but it didn't mean that he couldn't touch Sherlock at all. He pulled his shirt out of his belt and pushed his hand up, pressing his palm against heated skin. John was almost sure that Sherlock had stopped breathing, and when the lift stopped and the doors slid open, he released a shuddering sigh that made John want to press him up against the wall and attack his mouth.

He cleared his throat and removed his hand, following Lestrade. Sherlock walked behind them and John had to remind himself not to look back several times, because he could only imagine the look on Sherlock's face right now and to just snog him would just not work well with Lestrade just then. They walked along the corridor which Dimmock had walked down with John. He felt uncomfortable, but he knew that they would have been informed if something severe had happened to Carl. He must have been under surveillance the entire time.

Lestrade entered a code and the door opened, leading them into the next corridor. John was anxious now, walking faster. Lestrade knocked and opened the door quickly.

The room seemed empty at first, but then they saw Carl slumped on the ground behind his desk. He was very pale.

John pushed past Lestrade and knelt next to the unconscious form. His knees stung, but he couldn't care less for that now. He searched for a pulse and for a few dreadful long seconds he couldn't find it. Then, concentrating hard, he found the slow heartbeat in his throat, exhaling loudly. "Sherlock, the flumazenil, now!"

Sherlock handed him the bag with the phial and a new syringe which he had picked up on their way out of St. Bart's. John found his hand shaking lightly as he prepared the shot. "Carl, it'll be alright. I'm giving you a shot and you will come to. No sudden moves, okay?" He injected the colourless liquid and handed Sherlock the syringe. With a grunt, Carl started to move, coughing and blinking rapidly.

"What in the world?" He seemed awestruck and John carefully helped him up to sit in a chair.

"I guess your assistant didn't like you very much," Sherlock said smiling. Carl looked up at him and then at John. "So you found him."

"Obviously. What happened?"

"I got a call and then I just lost balance and went down. Jesus, that was weird."

Lestrade walked over to the coffee machine and announced that he would get water and then make coffee that was guaranteed to be free of any kind of drug, except for caffeine. Sherlock pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the desk, but he didn't sit down. John looked at him for a second and then realised that he had done it for him. With a small smile he sat down.

"Sickening," Carl commented, his voice still weak but a full smile on his lips.

Sherlock didn't respond to the comment, but calmly started to explain what had happened. When he came to the part where he discovered the drug he tried his best not to gloat, which John found rather amusing.

"By the sound of Miranda, it seemed as if she would have done more to you than have you suffer from the same paralysis. She made it sound as if you were dead," John said, pursing his lips. "She didn't tell you anything about what would happen, did she?"

Carl chuckled and shook his head. "Not that I'm aware. By the way, you look like shit, man, why aren't you at home recovering?"

John looked at Sherlock who remained entirely still, merely his eyes flicked into his direction. "Well, he wouldn't leave me," John answered, "and if I hadn't come with him he wouldn't have found the cure."

"So have you two sorted out your little problem then?" he asked amused, and John wondered whether something between them had changed since last night, something visible. In that moment, Lestrade came back with a coffee pot full of water and he wordlessly proceeded to make coffee.

Carl, Sherlock and John all stared at him, and John started to suspect that Lestrade indeed possessed a special talent to always interrupt them in the wrong moment. "Is everything alright?" he asked, clearly confused by the sudden silence and the looks.

"Yes, I suppose so." John chose to answer before Sherlock would start spelling things out for him.

"Good. So, how do we proceed? I think you've received a little inside information?" he was clearly referring to Mycroft's car that had dropped them off.

"We don't know yet. In any case, we can't let them know that we have found the antidote, so why don't you issue a statement concerning Carl and his strange ... oh, wait. Nobody knows that Carl is here, do they?"

Lestrade just shook his head. "We won't issue any statements until we can say that the murders have been murders, clarify how it happened and why we managed to find an antidote thanks to ..."

"Molly Hooper," John interrupted, looking pointedly at Sherlock, who seemed a little offended. "It was Molly who triggered the idea, right?"

Sherlock looked at him, clearly unsure of what to say. He was never mentioned in the official police reports, but by solving cases he had made himself indispensable. To not even be given credit for the initial brilliant idea seemed to upset him.

"Yes," he finally said, and John wondered if his answer had been the same if Carl hadn't been in the room. "Yes, it was indeed Molly who triggered the idea."

"Alright." Lestrade agreed. "Molly Hooper it is."

"Mycroft told us that they have found my phone, which was apparently taken from me at the hospital after my clothes were removed." John chose to ignore the small smile that tugged at Sherlock's lips. Damn the man. "He will give us all the necessary information so that we will know where to be and when."

"So you don't really know anything yet? No time or place?"

"We know it's going to be at 6 o'clock. Apparently I will drown." John shrugged.

"Millennium Bridge," Sherlock answered, silently enjoying the looks he received. "It's exactly thirty feet above water at high tide at the point where the railing separates the Globe into two halves, visually." And when the stares didn't really reflect any comprehension he sighed and explained, "She was going on and on about a thousand acres of sea and such nonsense. One millennium is one thousand years. Millennium Bridge."

"That is pretty far-fetched," Lestrade argued, "don't you think?"

John shrugged. "I think it's actually pretty reasonable, considering how freely the rest of the play has been interpreted. And it makes sense that it would be somewhere close to the Globe."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, "are we done here?"

Lestrade looked back and forth between him and John, and John wondered whether Sherlock's impatience had a certain reason or whether it was just him being his usual self.

"I think so. But promise me that you will stay in and that you will call me as soon as you know more. And John, tomorrow, when hopefully all of this is over, you'll come in for your statement and afterwards we'll ..."

"Alright. I hope I'm still alive then, but I'll be here if I can."

"Good. I trust you find your way outside? I'll try and see if Mr Whistler remembers anything of importance."

Sherlock just turned and left and John shrugged apologetically. "Sorry about him, he's been under a lot of stress." He had uttered those words more often than he could remember, but this time he meant them.

"He's worried about you," Carl chipped in and Lestrade just nodded. "Don't worry, you don't have to apologise for him."

"Oh, about that," John grinned. "He wanted me to apologise for his behaviour when he realised I was gone. He didn't actually tell me what happened but by the sound of it he did actually realise that he must have behaved pretty badly."

"Did he?"

"He actually is sorry, as far as I can tell."

"Oh John, you perform miracles."

John laughed. "Ah, come on, no matter what you say, he wasn't always bad. I'm sure he just doesn't know how to voice his appreciation."

"Sure," Lestrade chuckled. "I'll see you tonight then, hopefully not drowning?"

"Sure."

"Thank you, Carl."

"Thank _you_."

"I'll be off then."

When he closed the door behind him he found the corridor empty. All the way to the lift he didn't see Sherlock. When he pressed the call button, he wondered whether he had rushed off somewhere, but then he remembered Sherlock's promise to not let him out of his sight. He turned around himself once; nothing.

So maybe he had already taken the lift down? The doors opened and John stepped in, leaning against the back of the cabin, trying to forget that they still had a long day ahead of them. Just as the doors closed, Sherlock came running out of nowhere, barely making it through the doors. He crashed against the opposite wall, merely inches from where John stood, pushing out his hands to avoid crushing full frontal against the mirrored wall. He was breathing heavily and John wondered what he had been up to. Just as he was about to ask the question, Sherlock turned to him with a smile. He simply forgot how to formulate a proper question, so he settled for, "so?"

"Nothing important."

"No?" John forced himself to look away, if only to fight the urge to pull Sherlock down to him to kiss him.

But Sherlock had apparently read all he needed to know in his eyes, and still breathing heavily he pulled John against him. What started as an innocent kiss quickly turned into a desperate one and John wished that they were anywhere but New Scotland Yard, because if they stopped the lift now – something that seemed more reasonable by the second – it would raise more than one eyebrow. And then John remembered the cameras that were installed above them and with a grunt he pushed himself away from Sherlock, who looked ready to attack him again.

"Jesus, Sherlock. They can see us." He tried to sound reasonable, but somehow his voice betrayed him and he sounded incredibly turned on. "No," he added, raising his hands defensively when Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and took a step towards him. "At home, not a second earlier."

Sherlock tried to look heartbroken, but he didn't quite manage to get rid of the grin on his face. Just when the door opened he murmured, "I can't wait to undress you," and as John turned around to flee the cabin, he found himself face to face with Dimmock who looked anything but amused.

John turned scarlet where he stood, and Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him outside, grinning at the disgruntled DI. "We'd like to have a copy of that video."

John actually punched him in the arm for that, even if it probably hurt him more than it hurt Sherlock. "What are you doing?"

"I like seeing you blush."

"Wh ... what?" John stopped, looking at him, unsure whether he had heard correctly. Then he turned and left the building, trying to sort out his mind. This was not going too well, was it? If Sherlock started to embarrass him now just so he could see him blush he was lost. But then again he couldn't really do anything to stop him, could he? There was no way of embarrassing Sherlock, not really anyway, so he couldn't even take revenge.

"John?" Sherlock caught up with him, taking hold of his arm. "Sorry?"

Of course he would formulate it as a question, of course he would. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The only way of punishing Sherlock would be to not allow him to touch him, but that would mean that he would have to resist Sherlock and all his insane plans to make him change his mind.

He hailed them a cab, avoiding to look at Sherlock, who, in turn, decided to not look anywhere but at John.

"Why are you upset," he started about ten minutes into their ride.

"I'm not."

"John, you clearly are. What did I do?"

"Sherlock, it's not all about you, you know?"

"Well, that is a statement that could easily be proven wrong," he replied sarcastically but then moved closer to John so that their legs were touching. "Come on, what did I do?"

John tried to channel his arousal into aggression, but it was obvious that Sherlock knew what was going on; he just wanted to make John talk about it. Bastard.

When Sherlock's hand came to rest on his thigh he felt the need to either push him away or throw himself at Sherlock. _Not good, John, concentrate, we're almost home_.

He took Sherlock's hand and firmly pushed it off his leg. "I said not until home." He still hadn't looked at Sherlock, but he could see his eyes on him, scanning his face, trying to figure out every last bit of information he could get from him.

When the hand returned, he had to fight down a smile. He pressed his lips together and tried very hard to find a good reason why he shouldn't just keep his hand there, or move it further up north for that matter. "Sherlock!" He managed to sound somewhat upset, but it could also clearly be interpreted as something else.

"John?"

"Can't you just for once do what I say?"

"I would, but considering that you've been ill, and that you've spent a very long time in a three degrees cold room - and let's not forget that it was wet, so the cold must have been even worse for you - in addition to the stress you were put under and the fact that there is a fair chance that you'll fall ill again after tonight's events I don't understand your aversion. I want to touch you now because I might not be able to later."

John looked at him, and found that it had not been a good idea to avoid looking at him. He looked breathtakingly beautiful. Morning sunlight gleamed in his eyes, giving them a strange silver colour. He hadn't known that his eyes could look like this. His skin was very white with a shade of gold and his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The look on his face made John's heart do strange things that would have seemed unhealthy in any other circumstance but in this moment it proved to him that he was alive.

"I'm sorry," he tried, not really wanting to change his plan but finding it increasingly difficult to stay focused. "I know you have been worried, but please, just ..."

Sherlock slowly pulled back his hand, keeping his eyes on John's face. Then he turned away, folding his hands in his lap, and John felt a small pang of guilt. But no, if he now had the chance to actually establish some ground rules, he might have to take that chance. Sherlock would have to learn that there were certain things that needed no reason other than that John wanted them to happen, and that, in the end, Sherlock would be rewarded. He couldn't fight the grin that spread over his face and Sherlock's head snapped around as if he had sensed the change in John's expression.

He looked at him for a while, his fingers twitching as if he knew that he was not allowed to touch John, but that his hands wouldn't quite listen to his brain. John smiled at him, deciding that maybe he should at least give Sherlock something to occupy his mind with as he seemed to like it very much to be smiled at. And Sherlock smiled back, which in turn made John forget that he had just vehemently fought against his instinct and kept Sherlock at bay. So he grabbed the lapel of his coat and pulled him over for a kiss.

Sherlock didn't respond to the kiss right away. He even kept his mouth closed against John's tongue that was trying to sneak its way past his lips. So John pulled back, just so much that they could speak. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and smiled again.

"I don't understand why you did that," Sherlock commented and John just shook his head lightly. "I don't understand it either. But I do want to kiss you now."

"Do you?" It was just a whisper and John thought that there was no way that they would make it home without any touching.

"Hmm," was his answer as he moved in again, running his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock shivered and John thought that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to let go of his resolution. With a sigh Sherlock opened his lips, letting John in, finding his tongue with his own, drawing a moan from John that made him move back in shock. He nervously glanced at the taxi driver, who frowned at them through the mirror. John exhaled audibly and moved to the far end of the bench, pressing a hand over his mouth to keep himself from cursing.

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock sounded concerned, but also clearly amused.

"I'm fine, thank you," he answered curtly.

"Good," Sherlock allowed himself a smirk before turning back to the window.

It seemed as if every single traffic light had made it its mission to elongate the ride. John didn't care about the money they would spend on this, but the fact that the way from New Scotland Yard to Leicester Square had taken them almost half an hour was anything but funny to him. When they finally reached Baker Street, Sherlock jumped out and paid the driver, something which seemed rather odd to John, because usually he left him to pay. But then he remembered that he didn't even have his wallet with him and he started to wonder whether it was in the same place as his phone. Frowning, he made a mental note to call his bank to block his cards.

By the time he had climbed out of the cab, Sherlock had already disappeared through the front door. With a sigh he made his way inside, finding it already easier to take the steps up. His first reaction to coming home was to walk straight into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. Just as he wondered where Sherlock had ended up, he heard him coming down the stairs. Picking up two cups for the tea he turned around with the full intention of asking him whether he was hungry, and dropped the cups. Sherlock had spent the few seconds that his head-start had gotten him getting naked. So when John turned around he found a very happy and very naked Sherlock looking back at him. Sherlock was also quick enough to catch both cups as they slipped from John's hands and he put them down carefully on the table. "Might need those for my experiments, so be careful with them."

"You're naked," John answered, completely ignoring Sherlock's remark.

"Excellent observation, John."

"Sherlock, I really would like to ...," he couldn't finish his sentence, as Sherlock closed the gap between them and flung himself into John's arms, kissing him with such intent that John had to hold on to the counter behind him as to keep himself upright, because at this point not even a cast would have been able to support his wobbly knees.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Sherlock smiled against the kiss and then just picked him up, sitting him down on the counter so that John was slightly above him. John had not expected to love this angle so much, but again, Sherlock seemed to like kissing him from below, and even if it gave John the feeling of being in control, he wasn't at all. Sherlock pushed against him, his tongue exploring John's mouth, coaxing a small moan from him as he bit down on his lower lip, and drawing a much louder groan from him when he started to lick and suck on the same spot. Eventually, Sherlock seemed to have satisfied his immediate need to kiss John's lips, at least for now, and amused himself by nibbling at his ear lobe, something that had driven John crazy previously, but not in a good way. One of his former girlfriends had been obsessed with his ears and he had just found it plain weird and eventually it had become something of a turn off for him. Now it almost made him come.

And then Sherlock's hands started to push at his jumper. For a second John wondered when he had started to just accept the fact that whatever Sherlock did was turning him on, but to feel his nimble fingers pushing at his jumper while he caressed his chest through the fabric of his shirt made him lose his train of thought rather quickly.

"Sherlock," he groaned, surprised by how turned on he sounded. He hadn't known he could sound like this. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock detached his lips from John's ear but squeezed his nipple through his shirt, making John almost slip off the counter. A little desperate, he wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, ignoring the stinging in his knees.

"Yes, John?"

"Could we possibly move this to the bed?"

Sherlock laughed and then simply picked him up and moved away from the counter, carrying John with him. "Holy ... Jesus, Sherlock, what are you doing?" He wrapped his arms around him, holding on to him and hoping to god that Sherlock's spine wouldn't just snap under the pressure. But for someone so remarkably skinny he was surprisingly strong. Of course, he had seen his muscle definition, but he had never expected for Sherlock to just carry him around as if he were a child.

Then he remembered the moment when he had fallen in the lift shaft. Sherlock had held him for a good five minutes and John had not been able to help him at all. And he had been wet and entirely boneless, so Sherlock had carried his full weight and then some. He must have been sore from that. "Sherlock, you can let me down if you want to," he tried to talk some sense into him. Sherlock just pulled the door to the hallway open and then proceeded to carry him up the stairs. He was out of breath when they had finally reached the top, but he held on to him as tightly as before. So John decided against worrying and hugged him closer, feeling his thundering heartbeat against his chest, even through the jumper.

Sherlock chose John's room, and for a moment John wondered whether that would be a tradition now; have sex in his room and sleep in Sherlock's. But then again, it didn't really matter. Just the thought that he might feel those talented hands on himself was making his breath hitch. When Sherlock lowered him onto the bed, John tried to stay calm. He wanted Sherlock to undress him, but he wasn't sure whether Sherlock would actually comply with his wishes, not after he had denied him.

"John," Sherlock said quietly as he looked down on him, "please don't get sick."

John couldn't help but smile. "You are doing a pretty good job taking care of me," he commented, "although I am not sure about the blushing issue."

Sherlock barely managed to suppress a grin, but his eyes told John everything he needed to know. He was so in love with Sherlock being adorable that it was almost unbearable. So if he was allowed to witness Sherlock being unintentionally cute, then maybe, just maybe he could live with the fact that he liked to see him blush.

"Touch me," he requested, hoping that Sherlock hadn't changed his mind in that department. Seeing Sherlock getting hard at the request made John ridiculously happy. Sherlock sat down next to him and John sat up to make it easier for him. Sherlock started with finally removing his jumper. He might have loved John's jumpers, but he definitely did not love them as much as seeing John naked, which was a comforting thought to John.

When Sherlock had removed the jumper and started to open his shirt, John wondered whether Sherlock had undressed so he wouldn't have to do it for him, possibly getting stuck while he couldn't open Sherlock's shirt or his trousers. He was, after all, a very efficient person.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I've been doing a bit of thinking and since you obviously can't use your hands much ..."

"You have been doing _a bit of thinking_?" John didn't want to sound so amused but he couldn't help it. "That's all you ever do, think, I mean."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "That may well be, but," he sat up straight, looking at John with a somewhat grave look. "The status quo is not very satisfactory, is it? So I have decided to propose an alternative that might appeal to you."

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You want me to give you a blow job?"

John enjoyed watching Sherlock's ears grow red rapidly. "Well, I know it is selfish and you don't have to agree, but I find it very hard to touch you when you can't touch me."

"It's certainly hard," John agreed, congratulating himself on not giggling nervously like the schoolgirl he felt he had just turned into.

Sherlock ignored the joke entirely. "So, do you think that might be a good alternative, all things considered?"

"And by all things considered you mean that I might die tonight and you want me to bring you to orgasm before that." John was surprised that his voice had not yet abandoned him, but maybe it was that emergency button again that had diverted the sex talk efficiently and led to the removal of stitches. This time, however, he had in fact said exactly what he had wanted to say.

"No, yes. No, John. I just want you to be able to touch me."

"A completely selfless wish."

"Yes, no," he sounded frustrated, "I said it was selfish, but isn't that what you want?"

John chuckled and leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock closed the gap, but tried to not get lost in the kiss. "Isn't that what _you_ want?" John returned the question.

Sherlock turned away and the blush was now definite. "Would you?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yes, I would. But you have to know that I have never done this before and I might hurt you or just be really rubbish at it." John wasn't sure whether he was up for it, but while he had never thought in his life that he would one day have a cock in his mouth, the thought that it might be Sherlock's cock seemed quite appealing.

"I would let you know," Sherlock said earnestly.

John leaned back, letting Sherlock get on with undressing him. "I love you, Sherlock," he said as he pushed the shirt over his shoulders. Sherlock stopped all movement and looked at him, his eyes fixed on his, a small smile playing around his lips. John carefully kissed him again. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be fine, you'll see."

"I know," Sherlock answered, his smile faltering. "I know that you don't want to, but I've thought about this, and I've tried to find the safest way to deal with this problem, but the overall chances that something might happen to you are disturbingly high."

John sighed and took Sherlock's face in his hands, wishing now more than ever that his fingertips would be able to actually touch skin and not plaster. "I'll be careful, and Mycroft will be there and he promised to take care of me. And even if you might not believe him, I am sure that he is the one person who I would trust with this." Sherlock huffed and John smiled. "I know you'd like to believe that he would sacrifice me for the greater good or something, but just consider the fact that he loves you and he knows that you love me. So if something were to happen to me, he would know that it would make you unhappy, and I am sure he doesn't want that."

Sherlock shook his head. "It wouldn't make me unhappy if something happened to you; it would kill me." Something in John's heart seemed to snap and suddenly he found it very hard to breathe.

"Don't be silly." He tried to be calm and rational, suddenly finding himself in Sherlock's usual role.

"I'm not." He moved away from John, sitting up straight, turning his head away.

"Sherlock, listen." John took his hand, wishing he would just go back to undressing him. He felt himself strangely detached from what he was feeling, as if his heart and mind refused to even go to this place. "Don't think like that. You have been brilliant without me and you would be brilliant without me again. Just because I am here right now and you have something else than just your work to concentrate on doesn't mean that you should make irrational assumptions about anything. If something were to happen, I'm sure you could just delete me ..."

Sherlock's head snapped back and suddenly he found himself pushed down on the bed again, but this time there was nothing sexual about it. "John," he was almost shouting. "I could never delete you!" He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. "Never," he repeated, as if to make John see that it just wasn't an option for him to lose him.

"Moriarty was right," he continued, somewhat calmer, but still very obviously upset. "He knows that the only way to destroy me is by taking you away from me. He knows that, and that is why I can't let anything happen to you."

"Sherlock," John said quietly, trying to calm him down as he could already see Sherlock's eyes go bright with unspilled tears and he wasn't ready for Sherlock to have an emotional breakdown. Sherlock didn't do emotional breakdowns and John felt guilty for putting him into this position; for having drawn him out of his detached shell and confronted him with emotions that must have been distracting and very difficult to deal with for him in the first place without any additonal trauma. "I'm here, okay? I'm right here."

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to ..."

"No, no, it's okay. It's fine, really, don't worry. Please, don't worry." He pulled him down for a kiss. "I'm sorry. I love you. I wouldn't want you to delete me." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on to him, hoping that Sherlock would not be too upset because of his unhelpful remark.

Sherlock exhaled slowly and eventually moved back to sit again, looking down on John with bright eyes. Wordlessly, he unbuttoned the cuffs of Jon's shirt and gently pulled the shirt from him, repeating the process with his other hand. "Are you cold?" he asked as goose bumps spread over John's chest and arms, obviously adamant to push away his depressing thoughts. He drew one finger over the raised hair on John's arm, smiling as John shivered, "or is it just me?"

John squirmed, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's finger. He decided against answering, since Sherlock was clearly aware that it was his doing. He was also very aware of how painfully hard he was in his jeans and he willed Sherlock to move on with things. When Sherlock leaned down to kiss him, he closed his eyes, and Sherlock seemed to have waited for the moment, because when he moved back up, he stated to draw one fingernail excruciatingly slowly from the hollow of John's throat down over his chest and then on to his belly button. John tried very hard not to squirm, but somehow Sherlock had managed to override his basic control mechanisms and he arched up into the touch. An approving hum came from above and John made himself look again just to find Sherlock studying his stomach as if it was unknown territory that definitely needed exploration. He was just about to surrender himself completely to whatever Sherlock was about to do when he remembered that it should be him doing the touching; or kissing and licking for that matter.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, "I want you." Okay, this wasn't quite what he had planned on saying. Curse his subconscious.

Sherlock looked at him sharply and then drew his finger further south until it came to rest against the seam of his trousers. A small smile spread across Sherlock's face and John felt himself out of breath. "John, your body is incredible. I've never been allowed to touch someone like this; at least not someone living. I mean, I don't touch bodies like _this_ , but you get my point. Your reactions are quite interesting."

John snorted. "Thank you." He did it again, John thought, desperately trying not to start gushing about how sweet he could be when he wanted to.

"You're ticklish, but only when you allow yourself to be, that is interesting as well. I don't know if I am, because it does not work when I try to do it to myself."

John remembered him tensing up when he had touched his arse. "You are," he concluded. "I'm pretty sure you are."

"And this," Sherlock proceeded, drawing his index finger over the bulge of John's trousers, making him shiver violently. "This is absolutely fascinating."

John laughed breathlessly. "Well, you can experiment with me all you want, but I hope you won't deny me the same opportunity."

"Right," Sherlock said, opening John's belt and popping open the button of his jeans with a mere flick of two fingers. However, he took his time with the zipper, drawing it down carefully and slowly, watching John's face as he bit his lip hard in order not to moan. When he retraced the way the zipper had taken with his fingernail over John's shorts he couldn't master as much self control. "God Sherlock, please!" he begged to be touched properly. No matter how interesting it might have been for Sherlock to see his reaction to certain actions, and considering how much time he spent on some experiments he would certainly be crowned king of teases, but if he wanted John to function tonight and not have died long before that under Sherlock's hands he would have to stop with this teasing. "Sherlock, just stop this and get the pants off me!" he ordered, making Sherlock look up at him with obvious amusement and John decided that he would make Sherlock suffer in return, just so he would know what it felt like.

But apparently Sherlock understood that John could only tolerate so much teasing before taking away his right to touch him, and so he started to pull at his trousers. John lifted his arse to help him, sighing with relief when they hit the floor. "Shorts," he ordered, making Sherlock grin again.

"You can be quite demanding. That's very much unlike you."

"Only when I'm desperate," John groaned.

And Sherlock finally tugged at his shorts, watching in fascination how John's freed cock bounced up when he pulled them down. And then suddenly Sherlock's face was uncomfortably close to his cock and John decided that he was not ready for close up examination, not when he was sure he would come the next time Sherlock touched him. God, he was a teenager again, unable to control himself.

When Sherlock lowered himself on the bed to be on the same level as John's cock, John sat up, pulling his legs towards him to block the view. "Sherlock, I thought it was my turn?"

Sherlock looked like a child which had been presented with a bag of candy just to be told that he couldn't have it. "Please," John added, dying to touch him.

With a disappointed grunt, Sherlock turned around and spread out his arms and legs. "Very well." He looked almost bored, but John saw the little signs. The light tremble of his hands, so very unlike him; the skin on his chest that had taken on a light shade of pink and his shallow breathing that was pretty much a futile attempt at staying calm. Oh, and then there was a pretty impressive erection that eliminated every last doubt about Sherlock's state.

"God, you're gorgeous," John couldn't help himself, and Sherlock smiled a small happy smile at him.

"Close your eyes," John said, knowing that he wouldn't be able to concentrate under those scrutinising eyes, even if they would just look at the top of his head.

"I want to look at you."

"I know you do. Close your eyes."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "Please?" he tried, but John would not give in this time.

"No, you can watch me another time, but not now. This is my first time and I need to concentrate, and I can't concentrate when you look at me."

Sherlock pulled in his arms and pushed himself up on his elbows. "I want to watch you _because_ it is your first time, and it is my first time, too. I also did not know that I have the same effect on you that you have on me. That's most curious."

John laughed. "Yes, Sherlock, you are not the only person who gets distracted now and then."

"Okay, I'll close my eyes. But only this once and then never again."

John smiled. "I might actually not have to ask you to close your eyes, I'm pretty sure you'll do it all by yourself."

"Do you?"

"Sherlock, shut up and do it!"

So he did, lying back down, awaiting John's lips. But John just watched him for a while, allowing himself a few seconds of silent admiration of the beautiful man below him. Then he leaned down to kiss his lips. He drew the tiniest moan from Sherlock when he kissed him, and when John moved down to kiss along his jaw his lips opened with a long drawn out sigh. Since Sherlock had started nibbling on his ear, John figured that he might actually like it too, and when he gently bit his earlobe and then drew it into his mouth, lapping at it with his tongue, Sherlock shifted on the bed, cocking his head to give John better access. Well, this seemed unexpectedly easy.

He wanted to draw this out as long as possible, but he also knew that the day wouldn't last forever and that they didn't really have all that much time to indulge in extensive lovemaking. And he did want to see Sherlock come before long. So he kissed a trail down his throat until he came to Sherlock's collar bone. He playfully bit it and then licked the spot, drawing a stifled moan from above. Alright, if he liked that, he would give him more of that.

John moved to the other side and then decided that he had a great chance of helping Sherlock with one goal in his life, namely to embarrass Lestrade, and so he started to suck on his skin, making Sherlock gasp, which caused him to suck harder until he was sure that it would leave a mark. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, as his hand came up, lightly pressing John's face against his skin. After licking the heated and reddened spot of skin, he moved down to Sherlock's nipples.

John himself was quite sensitive, but only very few girlfriends had ever taken any interest in his nipples. But if Sherlock was anything like him – and he remembered the night after Canada before his nightmare when he had caused a reaction by just breathing on Sherlock's nipple – well, he would be in for a surprise.

He hovered over the left nipple for a moment, breathing warm air on it. Sherlock tensed the slightest bit. Then he licked it, once, drawing a gasp from above. His plan on making Sherlock vocal seemed to be coming along nicely. This time, when he blew air on it, the hand on John's head tightened in his hair and when he sucked the nipple into his mouth, lapping his tongue over it and gently biting down, Sherlock moaned loudly, seemingly having forgotten any resolution of self control. John smiled and repeated the process with the other nipple.

When he moved back, Sherlock's whole body was covered in goose flesh and John smiled. Sherlock inhaled sharply and John found that he had not stuck to the rule and watched him.

"Sherlock," he said warningly and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, clearly uncomfortable with having been found out. "Sorry," he said, his voice a low rumble in his throat.

So John continued further down, kissing along the lines of his ribs and muscles, enjoying the hitching breath that his actions caused. When he reached the belly button, he remembered his own reaction and how much he had wanted Sherlock to kiss him there. So he pushed his tongue down, causing Sherlock to arch up. He had not expected such a violent reaction, so he repeated it again and again, trying to ignore the erection which was dangerously close to his face now. After taking his time to explore Sherlock's belly button with his tongue, finding out how to draw low moans from his lips, he took his cock into his left hand to keep it out of the way and then he gently kissed, licked and bit his way down.

He could smell Sherlock, and somehow the smell made it all very real for him and it made him wonder about the taste. Well, there was nothing keeping him from finding out, was there? Bracing himself, he lowered his head and gave him an experimental lick. The grunt from above made him repeat the action and Sherlock's hand left his head and took hold of the sheets.

The taste was neither good nor bad, but it was new. Slightly bitter, salty, hot. He couldn't quite place it, but it wasn't appalling, and he was grateful for that. He would have hated to not like the taste of Sherlock, because then he would have been unable to make his toes curl like they did in the moment when he sucked the head into his mouth, experimentally running his tongue along the underside, careful not to use his teeth. Sherlock's whole body grew tense and the knuckles of his hands turned white because he was holding on to the sheets so tightly.

John would have smiled had his lips not been occupied otherwise, so he decided to move forward before Sherlock would start complaining. He let him slip in deeper, and tried to adjust his lips, feeling him fill his mouth until he hit the back of his throat. His eyes watered and he swallowed hard, unable to keep his teeth out of the way, and Sherlock went completely still.

John had feared that he might buck up and choke him, but it seemed as if he was sensible enough not to lose that much control. Just to make sure, he pulled back slightly and placed his left hand at the base of his cock to be able to control any sudden movement on Sherlock's part. Then, slowly, he started to move, experimenting with angles a bit, using his tongue to apply more pressure and his lips to suck on him. Sherlock wasn't loud, but it seemed to John that he would be if he allowed himself to lose control.

He pulled back, looking at Sherlock's face. His eyes were squeezed shut and he seemed rather overwhelmed by what was happening. Maybe he was only so quiet because he was just desperately trying to hold on, to keep his movement under control and with it his voice.

John circled his tongue around Sherlock's cock and then leaned back, smiling. "Am I doing okay?" he asked, just to make sure that Sherlock wasn't in pain, even if he had promised to let him know if anything was wrong.

Sherlock exhaled loudly and opened his eyes, blinking few times. "Don't stop!" he groaned. "Please, John, don't stop."

"Talk to me, Sherlock," John demanded, wanting to hear him lose his power over his vocal chords. "Talk me through this."

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body and John kissed the head, licking away the salty liquid that had gathered there since he had moved away. No, the taste really wasn't that bad once he had gotten used to it.

"John, please!" Sherlock moaned, his hand coming back to gently push John's head down on him and John complied. Maybe teasing him would have to wait.

So he let him slip back in, deliberately building a slow rhythm, a rhythm that he knew would drive him crazy. He was suddenly glad that at least he knew how it felt to receive a blow-job, even if he had never given one before. If this really was Sherlock's first time then he hoped to make it good for him; as good as he able to.

"John, ohh," Sherlock groaned when he sped up a bit, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on a steady rhythm.

"John!" A shout this time and John guessed that it meant that Sherlock was close.

And as he sped up even more, feeling the hand in his hair tighten and Sherlock's thrusts against him grow more adamant, he prepared himself for Sherlock's orgasm. A few weeks ago it would have never even occurred to him to even kiss a man, and now he was about to have one come in his mouth. Funny, how quickly things could change.

"John, stop thinking, please, stop thinking, John, oh John!" He would have grinned triumphantly had he not had his mouth full. Sherlock was babbling, now that was as good as it got. "Please, John, John, my John, don't stop, don't ... please don't stop."

He could see Sherlock's body tense up, the muscles in his stomach contracting and the hand that held onto the sheets flew up so it was pressing against the headboard of the bed, as if Sherlock needed to stabilise himself for what was to come.

And then he did come. With a loud cry he arched up violently, spilling into John's mouth. John was a little overwhelmed and didn't manage to keep it all in, but he swallowed automatically as Sherlock's come hit the back of his throat. Spasms ran through Sherlock's body and John was sure that he had never experienced him so out of control, so completely at the mercy of his base instincts and reflexes. And for a moment John was in awe that he was allowed to witness Sherlock being in such a vulnerable state.

When he was sure that Sherlock had spilled the last of his come, he pulled back and wiped his mouth, looking down on Sherlock who looked up at him with wide eyes. Aftershocks ran through his body and when John gently placed his left hand on his lower stomach, he jerked violently again, breathing hard.

He looked so beautiful and vulnerable that John suppressed the little voice in his head that was yelling at him that he had just sucked off another man and that he had loved it, and lay down next to Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace, letting him bury his head in the nape of his neck. He kissed his hair and whispered endearments against it, feeling a rapid heartbeat hammer against his chest, taking a long time to calm down.

And with a smile John realised that even if he would die tonight, he would die the happiest man in the world.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Sherlock held on to him for a long time. John was happy to just lie there and not do anything else than run his hands over Sherlock's back and to feel him breathe against his shoulder, but eventually he could feel Sherlock growing restless again. It made John a little sad that they couldn't just stay like this, but that they would head out again into the cold soon and he so wanted to be warm. John wondered whether Sherlock would actually count as a warming device he could request after they fished him out of the Thames and he had to chuckle, giving Sherlock an excuse to pull back his head and look at him.

"What about you?" he asked, and John understood that his restlessness might not have stemmed from the case but from the fact that John hadn't come yet. He kissed Sherlock, trying to snuggle even closer. "I just want to stay like this a little longer."

"Okay, but you know that I would be happy to ...," he stopped when John kissed him again.

"Well, do whatever you feel like doing. I'm just happy to be here with you."

"You are such a romantic."

"Oh, shut up, you know nothing about being romantic. You'd probably send me a bouquet of fingers and think I'd like that."

"I would never do that. I would keep them for myself to experiment on them," he replied with a grin.

"I love you," John said against his shoulder, "and I love that you seem to have figured out what humour is after all this time."

Sherlock laughed and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," he said quietly, and John was fairly sure that he referred to the blow-job and not the silly compliment.

"I'll get better, I think I just have to practice a bit."

"Better?” Sherlock actually gaped at him. “John, this was incredible. I have never felt anything like it."

John smiled and shook his head. "You'll see, I will practice and prove to you that this was not the best I can do."

"How often do you intend to practice?" Sherlock asked, half hiding his face again.

"Whenever you want me to."

Sherlock moved back again so he could look at John. His eyes were wide and John was amazed once again by how young he sometimes looked. "Are you saying that you would do it every time I ask you?"

"If you behave," John retorted with a telling arch of an eyebrow.

"John, I think you might be the best thing that has ever happened to me in my life. Well, there were a few cases now and then which could be comparable, but really ..."

John shrugged. "I just know that it will shut you up for a while and I might actually get you to eat."

"Do you think?"

"Yes, you'll see."

"I'm not hungry now."

"Not yet."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him as if he couldn't quite believe what kind of a conversation they were having. Then he started to kiss John's shoulder, slowly pushing him to lie on his back. His fingers gently fluttered over the scar and John let him do it. He had been curious about it all along, but now that he had the chance for a close up examination he made use of that. Then he moved over to John's collar bone, and, drawing a gasp from him, started to suck. Apparently he wanted to make sure that there was no mistaking in who was responsible for the love bites. John tried to remind himself to wear a scarf when they went out but then he thought that if he really had to jump down thirty feet into the murky Thames water, a scarf would certainly do nothing to hide it once he peeled off his wet clothes.

Oh, sod it, he thought, arching up against the mouth that was still vigorously sucking on his skin. Why should he care, really? Lestrade would either avoid the topic of their relationship altogether or his curiosity would get the better of him and he would ask exactly those questions that would make both of them uncomfortable.

"John!"

"Sorry," he grinned. "How do you do that, anyway?"

Sherlock detached his lips from John's skin and looked up, seemingly annoyed. "Do what?"

"Know when I'm thinking."

"I just do. I can hear you. Now if you would please let me concentrate ..."

John grinned and leaned back and enjoyed the tongue that was now pressing against the spot where Sherlock had just nibbled on his skin. Sherlock eyed the spot for a while, watching it change colour and when he was satisfied that it would be a visible mark, he moved up and kissed John's lips. "Can I keep you?" he repeated the question he had asked before, and again John found it hard to breathe. "Sherlock. I'm yours.”

"Mine?" he asked, carefully, as if he was trying to make sense of what that would mean. "I've never _had_ anyone."

"Sherlock, you had me when you stopped that cab after the chase through Soho and you had stolen Lestrade's ID and were going on about 'welcome to London'." He grinned at the memory.

"Really?" His hand rested on John's waist with just enough pressure to not tickle, but the lines started to blur when his thumb started to caress his skin. His breath hitched.

"You were the one who told Mrs Hudson that I would be moving in, so I figured you knew that I wasn't going anywhere."

"Right. But really, I just selfishly wanted you to stay. I told her that to make sure that you would, because it would have made it harder for you to say no once she knew about it. I wouldn't have liked it very much if you had decided to go then, especially after Lestrade came in with his stupid excuse for a drug's bust which completely altered your high opinion of me." His hand moved up to his ribs, and John squirmed, drawing a small smile from Sherlock. "You were the first person I laughed with in several years. I mean, not laugh about, but with, you know? And you still stayed, which was amazing. And you did not only stay but you cared enough to go after me and save my life."

He looked down on John, comprehending that he had just answered his own question. He inhaled sharply and kissed him once, quickly, knowing that he wouldn't be able to stop if he kissed him properly. "I am very glad that you stayed."

"You can keep me," John said with a smile, but the smile faltered when he brought his hand up to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair and he couldn't. But Sherlock smiled back and quickly kissed him again and then moved down a bit to proceed with his oral examination of John's skin.

When he came to his nipples, John knew that there was no way that he would make it through this with his dignity intact. Sherlock might not have been experienced, but he knew what he was doing. Just like the way he moved entirely gracefully without doing it on purpose, he was immensely talented with his hands and mouth. Or maybe it was just the fact that he liked to learn and experiment and therefore aimed for the best possible outcome with the least trouble. Whatever the reason, when he closed his lips around John's left nipple and the hand that had been resting on his chest came up to massage his right one, he felt all thoughts leave him, leaving only room for "oh god Jesus Christ Sherlock!"

Sherlock stopped his sucking and grinned up at him. "I had no idea you were so religious. I mean, I don't mind to be placed within a series of deities, but still, I would prefer to be counted more among scientists and thinkers. Why don't you try something like 'Newton, Bell, Einstein!' I think that might put things into perspective a bit."

John burst out laughing, his hands flying up to his face, wiping at the tears that the laughter forced from his eyes. "You are fucking impossible! Insane! I love you!" he gasped, still shaking with laughter.

Sherlock just grinned and flattened John against the mattress by pressing both hands down on his chest and returned to John's nipple, making him arch up again, his laughter dying in favour of a low moan. Sherlock took it as a signal. He alternated sucking, licking and gentle biting, making John writhe underneath him. Then he moved to the other one, repeating the teasing, but eventually lessening the pressure, he started to be gentler and definitely more playful. He let his tongue flick over the nipple and then blew cold air over it. He obviously had enjoyed the sensation when John had done it to him.

Sherlock carefully sucked the nipple into his mouth and bit down gently and pulled up a little, finding that John's whole body followed the movement. "Interesting," he murmured when he let go again.

"What is?" John was breathless and somewhat surprised that his voice was still in working order.

"I think you should get a piercing. I'm sure you'd enjoy that."

"What are you talking about?"

"I could play with it and make you suffer a bit," Sherlock grinned and bit down on his nipple again.

"Good god, Sherlock, I had no idea you were so kinky."

"Kinky, huh? I'm just sharing what I'm finding out about you here."

John blushed a bit. He wasn't sure whether he wanted Sherlock to spell out his as yet unknown sexual preferences for him. "Just get on with it."

Sherlock grinned and gave both nipples a lick before moving down. He kissed his way along the linea alba but diverted now and then to nibble on the bits of skin where John's ribs were visible. He could feel him smile against his skin when he came down to his belly button. With a small hum he buried his tongue in it, drawing a groan from John. He pushed down again and John shuddered, feeling his cock leak right next to Sherlock's chin which rested just below his belly button. "Please!" he demanded, hoping that Sherlock didn't plan on spending the rest of the afternoon exploring his belly button, no matter how good that felt. He just couldn't wait to feel those lips on his cock and he shuddered in anticipation.

Sherlock moved away but started to kiss his way towards his hips, making him buck up in the hopes of making clear what he wanted. But Sherlock's hands came to rest on his hips and he pressed him down, keeping him still. "Spread your legs," he whispered, and John looked down, finding him looking at his cock with such interest that he had to laugh, earning a quick amused glance from below. He spread his legs, just as he had been asked to and pushed himself up on his elbows so he could see what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock moved down on the bed and started kissing and licking John's inner thigh, keeping his eyes on his cock. When it twitched, he smirked and repeated the action just to see it twitch again.

John tried to tell himself that it couldn't be right to be turned on by being used for a scientific examination, and that the fact that Sherlock repeated an action not primarily to please him but to gather evidence and evaluate the outcome of certain actions was not supposed to be so sexy.

Sherlock took his time to repeat his experiment with John's other leg, but ended up pushing his legs farther apart, attaching his lips to a spot which he found to be particularly sensitive and started to suck in earnest. John was sure that his heart stopped for a moment and that the rest of his body was on auto pilot now because both of his hands flew up to the headboard and, injured or not, pressed against it to be able to root himself to the bed, feeling he'd just drift away otherwise.

It also took him a few seconds to realise that he was not only writhing under Sherlock's lips as if he was being tortured, but that he hadn't stopped moaning his name for the better part of a minute. The mark stood out angrily against his light skin and Sherlock looked at it proudly. "Now you're mine, and mine alone," he said with happily, his voice low and slightly hoarse. "Nobody will know about this one, nobody."

John remembered that this might not turn out to be true, but he chose to ignore it in favour of the butterflies that had decided to just now explode inside of him.

But the butterflies were rather effectively scared away again when Sherlock decided that it was now time to pay some attention to John's cock. He drew him into his mouth, his lips stretching around him, and even if John's elbows were shaking he pushed himself up yet again to be able to see Sherlock's mouth making love to him. He was speechless. There were no curses, no pleadings, nothing that could have expressed what it felt like. 

His body shuddered violently when Sherlock let him slide all the way inside his mouth. John had not expected anything like this, and when those soft lips pressed down on the base of his cock, his tongue lapping at the underside of it and he swallowed, John's elbows gave in and he fell back, his back arching up. He knew that he would probably kill Sherlock if he bucked up against him now, but then again, there wasn't much more of him that could actually go anywhere that wasn't already in Sherlock's mouth. Slowly, Sherlock pulled back. He inhaled sharply through his nose and cleared his throat. Then he smiled and repeated what he had just done and John lost complete control. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's hands that now pressed him back against the mattress again he would have been unable to keep himself from fucking his mouth, but this way it felt safe to let go.

Sherlock repeated the process a few times, trying a little bit of teeth, making John shout out an incoherent string of words that neither of them would remember afterwards before he began to finally build a rhythm, experimenting with speed and angles, using his tongue to draw lazy circles around and over his head, licking down all the way to the base and up again.

John wasn't sure why he hadn't come yet. He was so in awe of the man who seemed to enjoy it so immensely to give him pleasure that he just plainly refused to come. He did not know whether he would ever experience something like he did now again, so whenever he came close, he just held on. Sherlock loosened one hand from his hip and pressed his thumb against the love bite on his inner thigh. This time, John almost choked him when he involuntarily jerked upwards. But Sherlock just seemed to register his reaction and continued unerringly to drive him mad.

Eventually John could feel that his orgasm was only seconds away. Everything seemed even more intense from one moment to the next and he felt the control over his body slip.

"Sherlock," he groaned, warningly. He didn't want to surprise him and he didn't know whether Sherlock wanted him to come in his mouth. "God, I'm so close."

And Sherlock looked up at him, and even though he had his mouth full of John, he managed to smile. 

To be looked at so lovingly by Sherlock while being deep-throated by him pushed him over the edge.

His body shook with the intensity of release and for a few moments he was lost in the bliss of it all, knowing only that Sherlock kept him locked in his mouth the entire time.

It must have been minutes later when he found himself in Sherlock's arms, his face pressed against Sherlock's chest, still out of breath and with tears on his face. Sherlock had drawn the sheets over them so that they were both comfortably warm. Still, John shivered when he opened his eyes again, feeling Sherlock's arms tighten around him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked him, gently running a hand through his hair.

John only managed to nod, inhaling deeply.

Now it was definite; if he was about to die tonight, he would have felt more for another human being than he had ever thought possible.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Sherlock's phone shocked them out of their haze and John pressed his eyes closed, pretending that it wasn't there. But the ring was persistent and eventually Sherlock stretched and reached for the phone. John, being aware of the movement, opened his eyes and sneaked a glance at Sherlock's stomach as he stretched and with a sudden rush of blood down to his groin he realised that he had never been so attracted to anyone as he was to the gorgeous man in his arms who now sighed deeply and rolled back to hug John tightly against him and picked up. "Mycroft, I am so very pleased to hear you."

John grinned and carefully bit a nipple that just happened to be located very close to his lips. Sherlock tensed and exhaled shakily. When he spoke again, he sounded somewhat distracted. "Yes, if you say so. Of course. Half an hour? And you are sure? Yes. No. And Mycroft," his voice sounded almost harsh. "Nothing happens to him." With that he hung up, dropping the phone on the bed, hugging John even tighter.

"We have to get up," he murmured. "I was right about Millennium Bridge. He said they will have divers so that they can give you oxygen while they take you away so it seems as if you really drown. Thankfully the Thames is dirty enough for such a rescue mission."

John looked up and kissed his chin. "You don't have to be there," he said quietly.

"Of course I'll be there, John, don't be silly. I would never let you do this on your own."

"Okay." John nodded, remembering the pain he had felt when he thought he was watching Sherlock die. "Shower?"

"Yes, do you want me to wrap you up again? We only have half an hour but we could manage."

John smiled and wondered who would be the first to let go of the other. He felt fairly relaxed considering what their evening plans looked like, and he wasn't sure whether his legs would actually support him once he stood up. God, it had been so long since he had come like this.

Eventually Sherlock pulled away, rolling over and off the bed, somehow landing on his feet. He stretched, and just as John stared admiringly and with a silly grin on his face Sherlock looked sharply at him. "Up," he ordered.

John sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Sherlock to wrap the makeshift waterproof around his bandaged body parts. When Sherlock had gathered the material, looking as if he was going to renovate the room with his arms full of plastic and tape, he knelt down in front of him and ordered John to lift first his right and then his left leg. John watched him as he carefully fixed the material to his skin, drawing his fingers along the edges. When he was done, a sly grin took over his face and John knew that this was not a good sign. With a swift move, Sherlock pushed open John's legs, finding the spot where he had left the love-bite and attached his lips yet again, making John curse loudly.

Sherlock smiled after ensuring that the mark would indeed stay there for a while, gently drawing his finger over it before he moved back and started wrapping up John's fingers.

When he was done he stood up and ushered John into the bathroom, turning on the shower for him. "Call if you need me," and with that he was gone. John sighed and climbed into the tub, feeling much more ridiculous with his bagged hands than he had the night before. How in the world was he supposed to wash himself?

But then he remembered that Sherlock had said something about half an hour, and if he called for Sherlock now to help him, he was sure that they would not be ready for anything apart from more sex when the car arrived to pick them up. So he tried his best and actually managed fairly well. He decided to at least keep the bags around his legs for later, because if he could avoid getting Thames water into his wounds he would try his best.

John dried off and, wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked downstairs to see what Sherlock was doing and to tell him that he could now take a shower. He was almost down when he heard a knock on the front door and listened to Mrs Hudson as she rushed to open it. They had apparently forgotten to tell her about the 'do not let Lestrade in' rule. John tried to move quietly back up the stairs, but stood on top and listened as the DI walked through the open door into the living room. The shout that came from Lestrade made John bite his arm in order to not to burst out laughing. "Jesus, Sherlock! You're naked!"

"You usually ask about that before you barge in, don't you? What made you change your routine?"

"For fuck's sake, put on some clothes. And where is John? Why aren't you ready?"

John died a little bit internally, fearing that Sherlock would start bragging about the sex and that John was still recovering from his mouth or something else that would make him want to hide forever.

"John is getting dressed, mentally preparing to die tonight. He might need a few more minutes."

"Why are you naked?"

"An experiment." He sounded arrogant again and John barely managed to bite back a snort as he moved back into his room and started putting on some clothes.

"Why in the world ... it's one of the coldest winters in years, Sherlock. There is snow outside."

"Obviously."

John pulled over a jumper that he was sure he had never worn in the year that he had lived with Sherlock, just to make sure he wouldn't have to get out of his way to buy him a new one because he had formed some strange emotional attachment to it and wouldn't stand the thought of it having been in the Thames.

Then he made his way downstairs. He knew it would be hard not to stare at Sherlock, but he didn't want to make things even more awkward for Lestrade than they already were. "Greg," he greeted him when he walked in. Lestrade turned around, looking clearly confused and John cleared his throat noisily. It would have been so easy for Sherlock to say something that would leave everyone red faced, but he seemed content just to stand naked in the middle of the room, the love-bite very clearly standing out on his collar bone against his white skin. John silently cursed himself. This had definitely not been the scenario he had had in mind when he had sucked it against Sherlock's skin.

"Sherlock, why don't you go and get dressed?" he sounded almost too motherly, even to his own ears and Sherlock's lips twitched. He started to move and John already congratulated himself on somehow not losing his cool, but then he stopped in front of him, taking his face into his hands, and, pressing his naked body flush against John's, he kissed him as if he could win a prize for it. He clearly knew that John would not be too amused about it, but this knowledge only seemed to inspire him. He only stopped after he managed to draw a low moan from John.

Lestrade stood with his back against the wall, clearly not wanting to look, and yet staring at the two men in front of him. "Sherlock, you are making it impossible for me to work with you."

Sherlock grinned and gently stroked his thumb down John's face, lingering on his lips for a second before he turned to face Lestrade. "Well, you usually are the one asking for my help, so I really don't care about what you think."

"That's not true," John remarked, having found his voice again. "Don't pretend you don't care."

Sherlock frowned at him, clearly not having expected John to cross his plan of leaving Lestrade yet again without a retort.

Without a word he left the room, taking three steps at a time to get upstairs. John let himself fall into his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.

"So," Lestrade started but then remained silent.

"Jupp," was John's answer as he rubbed his face awkwardly with his bandaged hands. But then he felt the grin conquer his features again and there was nothing he could do to hide it.

"Oh come on, John, don't be like that," Lestrade complained. "Don't be all cute and in love and that ... in case you forgot, this man is Sherlock Holmes."

"He is, and isn't he insane?"

Lestrade laughed and shook his head. "There are no words." He sobered up a bit and rubbed his hands together. "So, are you ready?"

"I think so. I'm just not sure about the whole drowning in the Thames business."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Yes, sure," John nodded, biting his lip.

Sherlock came back down. He has skipped the shower and was just buttoning up his shirt. Without so much as a glance at them he walked towards the couch and picked up his scarf, wrapping it around his neck while he moved on to the desk, moving some papers around and finally picking up a magazine. Then he turned and made his way towards the door. "Coming?"

John watched him go and he wondered whether he was actually upset about his remark, or whether he was just anxious about what was to come. Sherlock didn't do anxious, John reminded himself, but he was also not a man who would brood over some offhand remark, especially not after doing the most attention seeking and ludicous thing John had ever seen him do - and Sherlock was an expert in these things.

He shook his head and followed him, finding Sherlock holding up the coat for him. He couldn't suppress a smile when John let him help him into the coat. "Are you nervous?" he asked Sherlock, needing to make sure that he was okay before they left.

Sherlock nodded faintly, but stiffened when Lestrade appeared behind them. "Let's go," he said, opening the door.

The icy wind that was blowing outside forced tears into their eyes, and when they sat down in the limousine that Mycroft had sent, they all looked a bit upset. One single tear ran down Sherlock's face, and he blinked once, not letting himself be distracted by it. But John couldn't stand it. No matter the reason, it was not right for Sherlock to cry, so he raised his left hand and brushed away that tear with his thumb.

Sherlock gave him a small, sad smile and John looked back at him, trying to calm himself and Sherlock down. Things would be alright, Mycroft would make sure of that.

The car stopped, and Sherlock's brother joined them. Lestrade sat up a little straighter, trying to avoid looking at him. He did not know exactly how powerful Mycroft was, but he knew enough to be intimidated by him.

"John, I thought I'd come to explain the proceedings to you," he started without greeting the others. Sherlock's hand automatically settled on John's back.

"We have found out that the potion which has been causing your paralysis reacts to electromagnetism. Some sort of metal has been added, which reacts to a certain frequency that has been administered at the time of your incarceration, and, supposedly, earlier this morning. Consequently, you would have to feign a reaction similar to the ones before. We are fairly sure that the exact time will be 6 o'clock, however," he looked at Sherlock, "we have to consider the possibility that they assume that we have found a solution to the problem. Therefore, you will have a small transmitter attached to your skin which will register the charge when it is administered." He held out his hand and dropped a small flesh coloured patch into Sherlock's hand. "You will have to fall, no matter where you are and what you are doing, do you understand?" He looked back at John, who nodded carefully.

"We will try to track the signal, and until we have done that we cannot risk for you to resurface. It might take up to sixty seconds, perhaps even longer."

Sherlock's fingers flexed on his back, but John kept nodding. He could do this.

"Good," Mycroft said, finally turning to Lestrade. "You will have your men there to arrest the involved parties?"

Lestrade nodded, and then looked at John. "You can swim, right?"

John laughed despite feeling slightly nauseous now. "You could jump in after me and drag me out."

Lestrade smiled and patted John's knee. For a split second John could see Sherlock's eyes move down to the hand, but he checked himself quickly.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started, making Sherlock sigh. John bit his tongue. It was almost absurd how perfectly well in tune they were when it came to being annoyed at each other. "You will stay away, no matter what, do you understand?"

"Mycroft, I do not intend to risk John's life for this. I will be where I need to be."

"Right," it was Mycroft's turn to sigh. "Just don't do anything stupid."

For a good five minutes, the brothers just stared at each other, and when John saw Lestrade positively crumble under the pressure, John cleared his throat and turned to Sherlock. "Where should I put this?" he asked, pointing at the transmitter in Sherlock's hand. He was almost sure he saw Sherlock's lip twitch, but he decided not to think too deeply about it.

"Your wrist, your chest, anywhere where you will be sure to feel the charge." Mycroft waved his hand in his general direction.

For a moment Sherlock seemed to consider John's chest, but then he shook his head at himself. "Nowhere close to your heart," he murmured and took John's right hand in his, pushing up his sleeve. His features relaxed for a moment when carefully drew the back of his fingertips over the small stripe of exposed flesh, remembering how John had reacted to his fingernails. John bit his lip to hide his smile.

Sherlock pulled away the small plastic cover and carefully placed the small transmitter on John's wrist, letting his thumb linger next to it for a while. "Can we try to see if it works?" John asked, anxious to make sure that he would be able to tell when he only had one chance at getting it right.

Mycroft nodded and took out his phone, ordering someone to release a charge. John and Sherlock both jumped when the charge hit. It wasn't too much of a shock, but strong enough to be clearly noticed. "Good, I think I can do this." John found himself sounding rather determined.

Sherlock's hand didn't let go of his until the car stopped. "I'll give you two a minute, but then you'll have to separate." Mycroft looked pointedly at Sherlock, making it clear that he would accept no alteration to the plan.

Lestrade nodded and climbed out of the car, followed by Mycroft, who carefully closed the door. John looked at Sherlock who stared ahead, lost in thought. "Sherlock?" John asked, carefully trying to get his attention when his mind was clearly in another place. For a few seconds he didn't move, but then he snapped out of his state and turned towards John, pulling him into an embrace.

"I'll be fine," John said into Sherlock's shoulder, smiling at the fingers in his hair. "I have so much to look forward to now, I couldn't just throw that chance away."

Sherlock huffed and pushed his face against John's, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. Then, without a word, he opened the door and was gone. John sighed, wishing he could have kissed him properly, but apparently Sherlock had decided to stick to the no good-byes rule. Well, he would get to kiss him all he wanted later.

With a small grin he climbed out of the car, finding himself at the back of the Tate Modern. "Dr. Watson?" A tall man dressed completely in black walked towards him. "Please follow me, Sir."

John was led into the building and into a large empty room that might have been used as a storage room, but had now been transformed into a sort of head-quarter for the operation. Ten men in full police fighting gear and several men in regular clothes were arming themselves, radios in their ears. Lestrade walked towards John, looking just the slightest bit smug. "I know that you are used to different scenarios, but even Sherlock Holmes can't do what these guys can."

John was then asked to come into a smaller room and to strip. He sighed, remembering the love-bite between his legs. Well, he could always say it was a nasty bruise, but that would betray the original intention. So he said nothing and took off his jumper and shirt. He was handed a bullet proof west and for a moment he found himself back in Afghanistan, preparing for work. Then someone started applying a clear cream to his arms and neck, explaining that it was to keep him warm while he was underwater. John looked at the transmitter, hoping it would do its job properly.

"We can do your legs as well, if you want to," the man offered, but John shook his head. "I'll be fine. I've been through worse."

"Very good, Sir," the man said and John felt slightly more comfortable in his role now that he was being treated as a soldier. After he had dressed again, he walked back to Lestrade. "So, I'll just walk out there in the hopes of finding the people who want to kill me?"

The DI nodded, looking around himself nervously. "I think we are too close to the actual place here, but Mr Holmes did insist that we do it here."

John smiled and patted his shoulder. "If Mycroft says something is going to work, I am fairly sure that it actually will."

"John, if they decide to shoot at you and hit ..."

"I'll duck."

"We won't be able to talk to you or give you any signals whatsoever."

"I know. I'll be fine."

"You have to go through this unharmed, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it."

John chuckled. "Greg, you'll buy the rounds tomorrow," he announced and then walked away, out of the room, out of the gallery and towards the west so he could pretend to have walked down from Waterloo Bridge. He managed to distract himself from what was actually happening by watching the seagulls hover over the river. It was almost dark by now and he walked past joggers and a few tourists, cameras around their necks, and a few homeless people. He stopped when he thought that he had just walked past a familiar face, but when he turned around, he could only see an old man, pushing a trolley in front of him, the grey beard covering most of his face.

John walked towards the promenade behind the National Theatre and made his way back around the bend of the Thames. Looking back, he saw that he had a good fifteen minutes to get to the Globe. So he inhaled deeply and walked with his hands in his coat pockets, dreaming of the first cup of tea he would make himself when he came back home.

When he arrived at the Tate, he looked at the dark tower, hovering over the square. The city really seemed quite gothic at this time of day. It seemed to be in a liminal state, where it was not quite night yet, but dark enough to hide those who did not want to be seen.

John turned around and walked up Millennium Bridge. The Globe was dipped in orange light behind him and the city lights were reflected in the water.

London is beautiful, he thought, finding that he wasn't afraid anymore.

"Do you have a bit of change for some dinner, sir?" A small old woman came towards him, holding out her hands. She did not look at his face, but John already knew that she was neither old nor small.

"So we meet again," he said, trying to sound relaxed.

"Oh look sir, look sir, here is more of us; I prophesied, if a gallows were on land this fellow could not drown."

"Oh cut it out," John was fed up with this act and he hated her for spoiling the play for him.

He walked on for a few yards, keeping in mind the point which Sherlock had mentioned. He stopped when the Globe disappeared behind the banister, only the top and bottom showing through.

He turned around to Miranda, who tried to stay in her role, but who was too visibly excited now to stand hunched over. She walked towards him, her eyes narrowed. "Why did you come, John Watson?"

John huffed, shaking his head at her. "You told me to, and I have learned that things usually go better when I do what I am being told by insane people like yourself."

"Insane?" Miranda cackled. "I ain't insane. Maybe a little obsessed, but my mind is working very well."

"We both know that one does not necessarily eliminate the other," he pointed out, trying hard not to check his watch or to turn around and check the clock on St. Paul's. It must have been six by now, and he had not felt the charge yet. In any case, he still stood firmly on the bridge, so even if he fell, there would be no way for him to drown.

Then he noticed a shape moving towards them over the bridge, which was unusually empty for this time of evening. The gangly walk made him swallow and John prayed that Sherlock was not near enough to see Moriarty walking up to them. John wondered whether the police had stopped anyone from entering the bridge after he had stepped onto it.

Miranda followed his eyes and opened her arms wide. "O wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in it!"

In one fluid movement, Moriarty pulled a gun and shot her between the eyes. John froze. Something told him that this plan had gone very, very wrong. He would not drown, would he? He would be shot, just like Miranda, between the eyes, just as Moriarty had planned on doing before, only now he had no weapon to defend himself with.

"John," Moriarty smiled. "It's so good to see you."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

John didn't say a word.

"Your friends have not been very careful, have they?" He looked at John's ears, checking whether he wore a radio or any other communication device. John prayed that he wouldn't touch him. He had lost quite a bit of weight over the past few days so it didn't show, but if Moriarty touched him, he would feel the bullet proof vest and know that he had back up. "I really would have thought they would give you the chance to say good bye this time around, knowing they were sending you to certain death."

John forced himself to remain calm, even though both of his hands were shaking. But it was not fear. No, he was angry, so very angry at the man in front of him. He once had learned how to break someone's neck with his bare hands, but he had never actually done it. He felt the urgent need to find out if he could still remember the move.

"John, John, John," Moriarty kept talking. "I really like a dramatic execution. Why don't you climb up here so that I can blow your brains out while the wind spreads you out like bread crumbs for the birds."

"I am not doing anything you tell me," John answered, a growl more than anything. "I am so sick of you and your games."

Moriarty laughed a short barking laugh and then pressed his gun against the pulse point on John's throat. He closed his eyes, praying that he would not just shoot him now. It would be a bloody mess. Some part of his brain just snapped and he started giggling at the thought.

Moriarty moved very close to him, his face only two inches away. "Please, share your thoughts."

Hysterical laughter bubbled up again, and some part of John watched in horror as his hand came to rest on the gun and he pressed it harder against his throat. "I just thought that this would be a bloody mess, literally." John felt tears in his eyes and he wasn't quite sure whether it was the laughter, the wind or panic.

"No," Moriarty seemed upset by John's sudden change of character, pulling the gun away with an angry movement, "can you swim, Johnny boy?"

John remained silent. "It must be a strange feeling to drown, don't you think? It must be a little like it was in the tower, only with a lot more water. You already got a taste of that, didn't you? The moment when your heart simply cannot keep up with your body's need for oxygen and warmth."

John closed his eyes, trying to suppress a shudder. At least there was no gun pointing at him anymore.

Moriarty walked around him, standing behind his back. "Ohh, did you burn your fingers while you played with _fire_?" he screamed the last word, making John jump. Then he yanked Johns arms behind his back and cold metal against his wrists told him that he had just been handcuffed. He refused to think about the transmitter.

"How good of you to lose some weight lately," Moriarty continued, a smile in his voice. "Those amateurs did not know how to properly starve you, but this will do. Why do I always have to do everything myself?" He wrapped his arms around John's middle. "Legs up, John."

John tried his best to stand up straight, but a kick into the back of each knee gave him no choice. His legs gave out and Moriarty held him tightly, somehow managing to swing him up so that he suddenly found himself perched on the railing of the bridge. A part of him was amazed at the strength the lithe man possessed, but then he thought of the fact that adrenaline could do amazing things, and Moriarty was obviously high on adrenaline right now. Or maybe it was just his general madness that lent him stength.

When he found himself sitting on the railing of the bridge, John knew that he had just missed his one chance of killing the man behind him. Then he felt the weapon press hard against his back. He sat up straight, praying that he would not shoot. A second later he could hear the bells of the city announce the full hour. After the sixth gong from Big Ben had given way to silence, he felt the transmitter on his wrist issue a shock and he slumped. In the same moment he felt the air pressed from his lungs at the impact of the shot to his back. Moriarty had shot him, making sure that he would not survive this. Just the fact that he could still feel his legs as he fell calmed him down and he inhaled deeply, but the impact when he hit the water, thankfully not face first, pressed the air out of his lungs again.

It took him a few seconds of struggle to realise that he wouldn't be able to use his arms, so he started kicking his legs, panic gripping him for a moment. He had no idea which way he was going, and he remembered that he could not swim to the surface. If his head appeared, Moriarty would have an easy target. So he tried to figure out in which direction the current was taking him, but it was hard to tell as his limbs started to stiffen in the cold and his lungs started burning with the need to inhale. God, it would be so easy to give in to the urge and just let go.

For endless seconds he tried to not panic again. He understood why pretending to drown people was such an effective torture method. He felt completely helpless under water and death seemed certain. The darkness around him was replaced with white sparks behind his eyes. Not enough oxygen to make them work properly. Only seconds before he would become unconscious and his breathing reflex would kick in.

He felt pressure on his arms and a stop to his movement as the water was now no longer carrying him with it but pushing into him. Something was holding him back. He opened his mouth and took a gasping breath in shock.

The air that filled his lungs tasted of life. John knew it was impossible, but he could breathe freely now while the water was still rushing all around him, filling his ears with a deafening roar. Then he reached the surface and he felt himself dragged against something hard, which gave away when his legs scrambled against it. The river bed, his feet must have been kicking the river bed.

He was dragged out of the water and someone started to frantically check for his vital signs. He blinked and coughed, trying to help them along with their diagnosis, proving that he was alive and relatively unhurt. Then he started shivering violently. Someone knelt down beside him, pushing him onto his right side and started to yank at the handcuffs. He heard a click and pulled at his arms, rolling onto his back again. The first warmth he felt since hitting the water were two large hands on his face and soft lips that were pressed against his. He gasped into the kiss, a tingle spreading from his lips and cheeks over the rest of his face as his skin slowly began to register pressure again.

He blinked water out of his eyes and found Sherlock hovering over him, his hands having moved from his face to his throat, trying to share some warmth and checking his pulse at the same time. His face was stern, but John knew he was just holding back his emotions.

"Sherlock, let off!" Lestrade came running towards them, John could see him in the corner of his eyes, but he kept looking at Sherlock. He realised that he was shivering violently, his teeth clattering as he opened his mouth. As his blood started flowing freely again, he felt it burn his skin. It was utterly uncomfortable, but it reminded him of the burning of his face whenever Sherlock did something that made him blush.

"Sherlock, move away. Now!" Two paramedics started yanking at John's clothes, cutting open his jumper and ripping away at his shirt. When he was turned rather roughly onto his side and the bullet proof west was pulled off him, he saw Lestrade huff out a relieved breath. "Jesus, John, you lucky son of a bitch!" He actually laughed with relief, and Sherlock knelt down behind him, his hand on John's waist, soothing the icy skin. "Just a bruise, John, it's just a bruise."

"Get him out of here," Lestrade ordered and John was lifted onto a stretcher and carried over to a police boat. He was heaved on deck and told to stay put. Just when the paramedics had climbed on board with him and moved him into a small cabin and started to undress him, Sherlock appeared in the door. "Out," he ordered, startling the two men. "I'll do it."

"We have orders," the older of the two men started, but Sherlock's gaze hardened.

"And _I_ am giving you the order to leave, now."

The man looked at his colleague and then pulled out his walkie talkie, asking for advice. A familiar voice on the other end advised them to do what the strange, impatient man told them. John had to chuckle, watching relief wash over Sherlock's face, but only so long as the two men were staring at each other uncomprehending. When they looked back at Sherlock, his mask had reappeared.

"It's f..f..fine," John said, his teeth clattering. "He knows ..w..w..what he's doing."

"Suit yourself." The two men were clearly not happy with the proceedings, but John was certainly glad when Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"John, are you okay?" It had taken merely a second for him to become the man John had gotten to know over the past days.

"Jus..t..c..c..cold," he shuddered and Sherlock removed his own coat and started to undress John. He was very efficient, and soon John was completely naked. John started to feel warm again when Sherlock looked down on his naked form, obviously considering the body heat sharing option, but then he grabbed a towel and started rubbing at John's clammy skin. Eventually Sherlock sat down next to him and pulled him towards him until he sat on Sherlock's lap, facing away from him. Sherlock wrapped the towel around his shoulders and started rubbing again. John tried to turn around and open Sherlock's jacket but Sherlock stopped him and did it himself before he started to unbutton his shirt. Then Sherlock pulled him back against his chest, wrapping his arms and his coat around John protectively.

They stayed like this for a while, but even Sherlock's body heat and his rubbing couldn't quite return the heat to John's body. Sherlock smiled and kissed his cheeks until he was satisfied that they were not cold anymore. Then he picked up a blanket from the bench next to them and wrapped it around John. "Better?" he asked, kissing John. John turned around and nodded, burying his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck. He hoped that nobody would interrupt them any time soon.

But of course he was being silly. They would take him to the hospital soon, and he needed to get into proper warm clothes and drink some very badly needed tea. The knock was definitely Lestrade's knock, and John thought for a second that he wouldn't mind for him to see them like this. But then he thought that Donavan might be with him. He hadn't seen her yet, but he was sure that she must have been around.

Sherlock sighed and moved back, giving John the chance to untangle himself from Sherlock. He stood up, helping John to rise, but just as he wanted to move to open the door, Sherlock went down on his knees again and pushed John's legs apart. With a sigh he drew his thumb over the love bite and then leaned in to plant a soft kiss against the reddened patch of skin. John cleared his throat, glad for the first time to feel so miserably cold. At least he would not get an erection.

Pulling the blanket closed around himself, he walked to the door, leaving Sherlock kneeling where he was. It was indeed Lestrade, and the two paramedics.

"John, we're going to take you across the river and get you to St. Bart's. I know that you probably hate the place by now, but we'll have someone check on your injuries and make sure you are not going to fall ill."

John just nodded. He didn't care as long as he got to go home at some point soon and could continue soaking up Sherlock's body heat.

Sherlock moved to sit on the bench, watching them with interest. "Could you bring the clothes?" he asked, his request apparently directed towards Lestrade.

"Right, yes. I'll be right back and then we're off." He turned away, leaving the two medical men standing outside, a little unsure of what to do now. John nodded at them and closed the door in their faces, finding Sherlock grinning when he turned back around.

He sat down next to Sherlock and took his hand, lifting the blanket and placing it on his inner thigh. Sherlock's eyes were locked with his and he could swear that he saw them change colour when he let him touch him.

The boat rocked when it started to move and Sherlock carefully withdrew his hand just before the door opened without a warning knock, Lestrade covering his eyes with one hand, holding a bag in his other, and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground just to close the door again.

John was sure everyone on the boat heard their roaring laughter.

John did not spend the night at St. Bart's. He simply refused to stay. Sherlock had not said a single word, but John was sure that if anyone had disagreed with him, he would have made them a head shorter.

He was, however, completely exhausted when they finally came home. John had not asked what had happened to Moriarty, or anybody else for that matter, and Sherlock had not said anything, so he figured that the problem was solved.

He let himself fall on the couch and lifted an arm in the direction of the kitchen. "Sherlock?" It was all he had to say, and Sherlock understood. He made him tea and then sat down, taking John's hands into his. The doctor at St. Bart's had removed the bandages, and the only plaster that was left was the one covering the cut on John's right hand. Only for that it had been worth going to the hospital, that, and the hot shower. He smiled, but a yawn interrupted him. Sherlock carefully examined the wounds on John's fingers, gently drawing his fingertips over them. It tickled, and more than once John winced, but he let it happen.

"Why do you want to get drunk with Lestrade tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, turning his hand over, examining his knuckles.

John wasn't even surprised by the sudden question. "Because I need to do this. He's been so worried, and such a great help." Sherlock looked at him sceptically, but didn't say a word. "And we've been driving him mad, so I want to give him a chance to complain about it properly without you giving him a piece of your mind."

"I'm not invited then?" he asked, and John wasn't quite sure whether the disappointment in his voice was an act or mockery.

"You can come if you promise to not try and embarrass me, or him. And if you can promise that I'll make it through the day without blushing once, then yes, you're invited."

Sherlock bit his lip, considering the offer. Then he grinned slyly and leaned in for a kiss. "I haven't decided yet," he announced.

John smiled and leaned against Sherlock, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I think I have to sleep."

"Of course you do. Come on, I'll take you to bed."

Sherlock stood up and pulled John with him, up the stairs and into the bathroom. He prepared John's toothbrush and handed it to him. When John opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock lifted his chin and said, "this also falls into the category of tell anyone and you die."

John giggled and started to brush his teeth. When he was done, he carefully washed his face and then started to undress. He was so happy that he could use his hands properly again that he took the time to carefully open each button as if he might break it otherwise. Sherlock watched him, and John could see how he grew more impatient by the second.

"Are you going to sleep as well?" John asked, stopping at the lowest button, watching as Sherlock inhaled deeply and dragged his eyes up to his face. "No, but I'll go to bed with you. I have some work to do."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you should take a break. Lestrade promised to ...," he stopped, realising that he had not actually planned on telling him about their agreement.

"I know, but John, do you remember what I told you about physical contact to you in correlation with my brain activity? I've come up with a great number of theories concerning old cases and I need to work on them now before I delete the memories again."

"Is that so?" John smiled and yawned. "I hope they are not dangerous."

Sherlock grinned and stepped closer to open that last button for John. "No, they are not dangerous. Just complex, and some of them too obvious, so obvious in fact that I missed the important points."

He smiled as Sherlock continued with his trousers. "When I wake up tomorrow," John announced as he stepped out of the pile of his clothes on the ground, "I will be the one who gets to explore."

Sherlock smirked and started to undress. "I'll make sure to wake you up early."

"Good," he smiled and walked past his half dressed lover, dragging himself into Sherlock's room, dropping on the bed like a rock. Instead of moving up the bed to properly lie on it, he grabbed Sherlock's pillow and pushed it under his face, inhaling deeply.

The last thing he felt before falling asleep was a kiss being pressed to the small of his back and then slightly lower, and he wished that morning would come soon.

**Fin**


End file.
